Joseph Roth - The Hundred Days

The Emperor thoughtfully drew crosses, stars, and lines on the maps, as thoughtfully as if he were playing a game of chess. In this and that spot he jotted down numbers. Here were the dead, there the living, here the cannon and there the cavalry; there the supply train and here the field hospital. Nothing but horses, flour sacks, barrels of spirits, enemies, men, horses, brandy, sheep, oxen — and men, men, men; men all over the place.

Once in a while he arose, left the table and maps, threw open the window, and looked at the plaza below, the great open square on which once, as a young unknown officer, he had drilled many an unknown soldier. Now, thousands of young soldiers were marching to the north-west. He listened to their songs. He heard their drums. They were still the old drummers. He could hear their quick and steady step. Yes, it was the wonderful, nimble, victorious step of the French, the rhythm of their swift and courageous feet, the feet that had traversed the highways of half the world; brave feet, the feet of the Imperial soldiers, more useful and vital than their hands.

At such moments he listened lustfully and greedily to their cries: “Long live the Emperor!” Cheerfully, he sat down once again at the table before his maps and wrote numbers here and there in red, blood-red ink. They represented brandy, horses, oxen, wagons, cannons, and soldiers — the very same soldiers who had just marched past the palace shouting: “Long live the Emperor!”

The Emperor had not seen his mother in a long time. He had given very little thought to the old woman. Now he came to bid her farewell before going off to war. Custom demanded it, as did his heart.

She sat clumsily, ordinary yet dignified, in a wide armchair in a darkened room. She loved the cool dusk, the thick burgundy curtains that hung over the shut windows, and the mild protective stillness of the sealed house with its thick walls. She was old; she could not handle the blinding summer sun.

It was late morning when her son arrived. He seemed to bring along something of the overpowering, stifling heat that ruled the city. Amid the soft, dark-red, sun-dampening shade that filled the room, his skin-tight, snow-white breeches shimmered all too loudly; they practically blared. He had come on horseback, and his spurs issued a delicate, but in this room inappropriate and embarrassing, jingle. He bent forward, kissed his mother’s hand, and received a kiss upon his hair, on the very top of his bowed head. He stayed like that a while, bent over in a highly uncomfortable position. The large, soft, and very pale hand of his mother stroked his hair a few times. They were both silent.

“Sit, child!” said the old woman finally. He straightened himself, remaining standing close to his mother. She was not sure whether it was out of respect or impatience. She knew him. He was just as reverent as he was impatient. “Sit, my child!” she repeated. And he obeyed.

He sat to the right of his mother, just opposite the window, so that the reflection of the burgundy, sun-lit curtain fell upon his face.

His mother turned to him. She examined him for some time. The Emperor kept his eyes focused on her while she studied him. He studied her too, looking upon her old face, her large, pretty mouth, her smooth forehead (which was still free of wrinkles), her strong chin and her beautiful straight nose. Yes, there was no doubt: much had he inherited from her. She looked like the mother of the great Emperor that he was. In studying her face, he saw his own likeness and practically his very destiny. Now, however, he had no patience or time for scrutiny. He shifted his foot forward gently. His mother noticed it.

“I know,” she said, her head quivering a bit, her voice soft and melancholy. “I know,” she continued, “that you have no time. You never had time, my son. You became great through impatience. Beware that impatience does not lead to your destruction. You returned out of impatience. You should have stayed!”

“I could not,” said the Emperor. “They hate me too much, my enemies. They would have exiled me to a remote desert island. I had to be quicker than them. I had to surprise them.”

“Yes, surprise!” said his mother. “That is your way. But waiting is also a way.”

“I’ve waited long enough!” the Emperor said loudly. He stood. He was speaking now quite forcefully. His voice sounded as if he were shouting blasphemies. “I can wait no more!” he cried. “They will invade while I wait!”

“Now it is too late for waiting,” his mother said gently. “Stay seated, my child. I might have more to say to you.”

The Emperor sat down again.

“I am seeing you perhaps for the last time, my poor son,” she said. “I pray that you may outlive me. I have never, or at least rarely, worried for your life. But now I am anxious. And I can do nothing to help you, for you are the powerful one. I cannot advise you, for you yourself are so wise. All I can do is pray for you.”

Now the Emperor lowered his head. He stared at the dark-red carpet then propped his elbow on his brilliant white breeches and his chin on his closed fist. “Yes, pray for me, Mother!” he said.

“If your father were still living,” she went on, “he would certainly know a way out.”

“My father would not have understood me!” said the Emperor.

“Silence!” she cried, almost shrieked, her pretty, dark, metallic voice ringing out. “Your father was great, wise, brave, and modest. You have him to thank for everything. You have inherited all his qualities — except modesty. He, he had patience, your father!”

“I have a different destiny, Mother!” answered the Emperor.

“Yes, yes,” said the old lady. “You certainly have a different destiny.”

They were quiet for a while. Then his mother began again. “You seem to have aged, my son. How do you feel?”

“I sometimes grow tired, Mother,” said the Emperor. “I’m sometimes suddenly tired.”

“What ails you?”

“I don’t consult doctors. If I were to send for them, they would tell me I’m deathly ill.”

“Can you bear it?”

“I must, Mother, I must. I will return greater than ever. I will flatten them.”

He lifted his head. He looked straight ahead, past his mother, toward a goal that he alone could see. . toward a victorious

return.

“God bless you!” said his mother. “I will pray for you.”

The Emperor stood. He went to the old woman and bowed. She made the sign of the cross over him and offered her large, old, soft, white hand. He kissed it. She embraced his neck with her left arm. He felt the soft motherly warmth of her thick arm through the black silk of her sleeve. At that moment he was struck with a woeful feeling. I wish I could embrace my own son like this, he thought. Happy is she, my mother. She can embrace her son!

A warm teardrop, then a second and a third fell upon his lowered head. He dared not look up, nor could he, as he was held down by the gentle restraint of the motherly arm. When she finally loosened her grip and he was able to straighten, he saw the tears running furiously down his mother’s face. She cried with an unmoving face, without changing a feature. Only the tears flowed freely from her large, wide-open eyes.

“Don’t weep, Mother,” said the Emperor softly and helplessly.

“I weep with pride,” said the old woman in a quite ordinary voice, as if she were not actually crying. Her throat, mouth, and voice were unaffected by her tears.

Once more she made the sign of the cross in the air before the Emperor and murmured something inaudible. Then she said: “Go, my child! God bless you, my child. God bless you, my Emperor!”

He bowed again. Then he left quickly. His spurs jingled, his black boots gleamed in the dark-red room despite the dusk, and his snow-white breeches were loud in their dazzling brightness.