Joseph Roth - The Hundred Days

Her hopes were fulfilled, and the little one looked not one bit like Sergeant-Major Sosthène but rather like his mother. He had reddish hair and freckles, was thin, strong, and agile. He was her son, no doubt! Yet almost from the beginning she felt he was slipping away from her and becoming more and more a stranger to her from one Sunday to the next. In fact, sometimes she believed that he allowed her affection only out of childish shyness and that he sold every kiss to her for a present. He was her son, red-haired and saturated with freckles; she had only to glance at him, and it was as if she were looking at herself in the mirror. But sometimes that reflection vanished, evaporated, or suddenly transformed. There were Sundays when she did not find the boy at home. He was off running around with his friends (whom she hated) in places unknown, and she had trouble finding him; when she did locate him, he soon escaped once more from her tenderness and care.

When he was seven, the boy was gripped by an intense passion for all things military — as was common for many children at the time. He hung around the barracks, befriended the guards, drilled with his comrades, stole and collected battle pictures and portraits of the Emperor, soon made his way to the barrack yards, ate out of the bowls of the good-humored soldiers, learned military songs, bugle-blowing, drumming, and even musket-handling. When one day he spied one of the little drummer boys, of whom there were many in the Imperial Army, he decided to become a drummer himself. He knew that he was a soldier’s son and understood all that was spoken between his mother, the midwife Pocci, and Véronique Casimir on those Sunday visits. And he had a very definite and clear idea of what his unknown father was like.

So one day, the boy decided to spend the night in the barracks of the Twenty-Second Infantry Regiment, strengthened in his decision by a sympathetic but somewhat tipsy Sergeant-Major. He received many frightening caresses but thought they must be a part of the military life. He was only found two weeks later thanks to the inquiries of the influential Véronique Casimir. By now the boy was officially a soldier in the Emperor’s army, and on Sundays Angelina went to the barracks of the Twenty-Second Infantry Regiment to visit him.

The first time, she came back bewildered, frightened, and affronted. Her son reminded her now (even though he still resembled her) of Sergeant-Major Sosthène. She could barely see his freckled face — the huge shako with its steep slope practically hid it; his excessively wide uniform jacket flapped about the boy’s narrow hips; his pants were too long; and his boots horrendously large. She saw that her son was lost forever. At home, she looked at herself in the mirror, for the first time in many years searching for signs of time’s passage and for beauty and youth, as she had done in the old days. She found the eternal and solitary comfort that Nature has granted to women; she began to wait for new miracles.

The miracle revealed itself on the next Sunday afternoon, as she was leaving the barracks of the Twenty-Second. Before her stood a man in the uniform of a Commissariat official, and this uniform seemed to block her way. When she raised her head, she saw a blond-haired, smiling, mustachioed face, which was familiar yet unpleasant. At a complete loss, she smiled at him. The man stood motionless. “Mademoiselle Angelina,” he said and saluted. She recognized him at once from his voice. It was the gallant Corporal of the artillery who had attended Sergeant-Major Sosthène’s farewell celebration. “Where did you come from?”

“I have been visiting my son,” Angelina said.

“And your husband? My dear comrade? What is he up to?”

“I’m not married. He’s not my husband. I have only my son,” she replied.

“I too,” began the former Corporal, as if recognizing that his fate was similar to hers, “I too have seen changes. .” and he gestured at his uniform. “I am now with the Commissariat. I’ve had enough of his campaigns” — and at the word “his” he pointed with his thumb over his shoulder, as if the Emperor were standing behind him. “I have a serious injury to my leg, nothing but misfortune! Nothing but misfortune! I got out at the right time. I can await the outcome in peace. Oh, I remember, Mademoiselle, your great anger that time at the party! You must now admit that you were not completely right. You certainly know what’s happening.”

“I don’t know what’s happening,” whispered Angelina. “I only know that the rest of this regiment is waiting at the ready there.” She pointed at the barracks. “And I’m anxious for my son,” she added.

“Rightfully so,” said the Commissariat official. “We’re beaten! The enemy will be in Paris in two days. The Emperor comes tomorrow. I’m not worrying about that. I’ve served him loyally for years. Now I’m waiting to see what the great ones will decide. I’m a philosopher, Mademoiselle.”

Although Angelina found the former corporal’s voice, smile, and words disagreeable, she nodded when he was done speaking but she had no idea why. This encounter distressed and cheered her at the same time. Although she was looking down she could feel the man’s kind and caressing gaze. That, as he had said, he was a philosopher and had been injured, that the Emperor was coming the next day, France was beaten, the enemy would be in Paris in two days, and the “great ones” were going to decide something — all this unnerved her as greatly as his kind and penetrating eyes.

He suggested that they “go somewhere.” She was not surprised at his suggestion. She had in fact expected it and maybe even hoped for it. At this point she was in no mood to return to the palace and her roommates. Nor did she ask where he was taking her. Instead, she began to walk at his side. After a few steps he took her arm. A slight ripple, somewhat spine-chilling yet also somewhat soothing, came from his taut muscles. It was a compelling masculine tremor; she felt it in her arm and then through her entire body. It offended her yet also comforted her. It seemed to her that she existed in two separate parts. There were really two Angelinas: one proud and filled with disdain for the man at her side and the other helpless and grateful to him for the nameless kind of escape he offered. She was silent while he talked of politics, of the world, of the difficulties and errors of the Emperor. He led her through the city for what seemed like a very long time. Someone else was thinking for her, someone else had selected a destination for her. It was humiliating yet pleasant. She felt so alone, so betrayed. The man was a stranger, but he promised some kind of refuge, an escape at any rate. She could not go home, even though she was tired. It was a pleasurable exhaustion. The autumn day was cool. Menacing violet clouds drifted low over the rooftops and at the street corners the wind was blowing from all directions at once. Sometimes her foot landed on a crisp yellow leaf that had fluttered out of some garden. It crunched under her step with a dry and dead sound that seemed more like trampled bones than trampled leaves. Darkness fell very quickly; the Commissariat official had long since ceased speaking.

They entered a colorful, light-filled inn at Vanves, packed with non-commissioned officers, maid-servants, and accordions. It had been a long time since Angelina drank so much and so hastily. She sat on the soft red upholstered seat next to the man. The seat itself was soft, but the same-colored back was deceptively hard, a wooden board that only looked comfortable. To protect Angelina’s back from this inhospitable board, the Commissariat official stretched his right arm out and laid it around her neck. With his left hand he poured more wine into their glasses. He bent his friendly pink-faced, blond-haired head toward hers. She felt it coming nearer through a thin blue-gray fog. She was shy but she did not recoil. She kissed his soft, sweet mustache. It seemed to last an eternity. She opened her eyes. It struck her that she did not even know the man’s name. If only she knew his name, everything would be orderly and natural, justifiable before God and the world. So she asked: “What is your name?”