Joseph Roth - The Hundred Days

“He was with you in the field,” said Angelina. Through the warm wet veil of her tears she looked at him with fearless clear eyes, and her voice was equally clear and ringing.

“Go now, my child,” said the Emperor. As she remained motionless, he repeated: “Go! Just go!” Gripping her gently by the shoulders, he spun her around. She went.

“She will be told,” the Emperor ordered, “that her son has fallen and that I myself have buried him. Tomorrow she will be paid five thousand.” Turning to his servant, he added: “You’ll take care of it personally!” He allowed himself to be undressed and stepped into the bath. He had thought he would be able to remain alone in the hot water that he so loved and in which he felt cozily at home, but then his brother Joseph and the War Minister entered. He let them approach the bath and told them about the battle, becoming foolishly agitated, which he realized was pointless but could not control, and making accusations against Marshal Ney. Arrogance and shame filled him as he sat there naked in the water. Through the steam he could perceive their faces growing hazy, and he gestured with his bare arms, slapping at the water with his hand so it sprayed out of the tub high and wide and sprinkled the uniforms of the nearby men. The men did not move. Suddenly he once again had the feeling that all was lost and his excitement evaporated. He stopped speaking, leaned back, and from the midst of the hot water felt a great chill. He asked, so as not to reveal that he had suddenly become weak and helpless and yet admitting it after all: What should he do?

He knew at that moment, however, that his future depended not upon himself or on others but had been dictated long before by some terrifyingly unknowable, all-powerful decree. Oh! He had believed that as usual the bath would bring him strength and comfort. For the first time, however, he found himself helpless. Weary as he was from misfortune and numerous sleepless nights, his large eyes, which remained open and awake only on account of his immeasurable sorrow, saw clearly for the first time — despite the steam wafting through the room from the hot water — signs of weakness in the faces of his brother and his friend. Whatever they tell me, he thought, will be utter nonsense. They can only advise someone of their own kind. I obeyed special laws when I was great and strong; I must also obey special laws now that I am helpless and defeated. What do they know of me? They don’t understand me! They don’t! They understand me as little as the planets understand the sun that grants them life and around which they orbit! For the first time in his life the ever-alert Emperor had tired eyes; and for the first time he felt that one could see further and more clearly with tired unhappy eyes than with fresh sharp ones. Once again he thought of old Job and the Holy Father and the friends who had come to console him over his defeat, and like Job he rose and stepped naked before his friends. Only for a moment did they glimpse the naked Emperor, with his sallow, creased belly, the chubby thighs that always seemed so powerful and muscular in those snow-white Imperial breeches, the short strong neck, the rounded back, the small feet and dainty toes. This lasted for just a moment before the servant came and wrapped the short body in a great wide white flannel towel. The Emperor’s bare feet left distinct wet marks on the floor with each step.

A few minutes later Angelina returned as her duties prescribed. She saw the tracks of the Imperial feet and as she scrubbed the floor she felt she was defiling and insulting the Emperor’s footprints because she was forced to erase them. The servant, who was still organizing the bottles, soaps, and towels, approached her and said very gently: “I have something bad to tell you. Do you hear me? Something very bad!”

“Tell me,” she replied.

“Your son — ” he began. .

“He’s dead,” she said quite calmly.

“Yes. And the Emperor himself buried him.”

Angelina leaned against the wall. She was silent for a moment and then she said: “He was my son. He loved the Emperor. Just as I love him.”

“You will be given five thousand gold pieces,” said the servant.

“I don’t need them. Keep them,” replied Angelina. “Go!” she said “Don’t disturb me! I must work!”

Once she was alone she fell down to her knees, made the sign of the cross, and tried unsuccessfully to pray. She remained for a long time like this, on her knees, brush in hand. She looked as if she were attending to the floor but her mind was on Heaven, her dead child, and the Emperor.

Her heart was heavy; her eyes remained dry. She mourned her son, but also envied him. He was dead, dead! But he was buried by the Emperor’s hand.

The next morning at ten o’clock the ministers assembled in the Emperor’s palace. The generals and the high officials of the Empire awaited him in the corridor. They stood motionless, arranged in two rows looking respectful and reverent, anxious and sorrowful. In reality, however, most of them were more fearful for their own fates than the fate of the country and the Emperor; and some were even inspired more by curiosity than by sorrow. Still others were concerned for the effects that all of this would have upon their reputations and the living they had earned since the Emperor’s return. They stood there solemnly, convinced that they alone were the critically important, the agents of destiny itself. Fouché was already waiting in the chamber. His face was even more pale and sallow than usual. He bowed his long gaunt head very low as the Emperor entered. But the Emperor did not look. He felt nonetheless both the veiled glance of his Minister of Police and the frank, ruthless eyes of old Carnot. The Emperor had no need to look at them all; he had known each one for years. He already knew what they were thinking and what they would say. He sat down.

“The meeting is now open,” he began with a calm voice. “I have returned,” he continued, “so as to halt the calamity that is about to overtake us. But for some time I will need absolute powers.”

They all lowered their gaze. Fouché alone fixed his light eyes unwaveringly on the Emperor. The whole time he was writing, note after little note, one after another without stopping, God only knew to whom, in plain sight of the Emperor. The Minister of Police wrote without even looking at the paper. He kept his gaze focused on the Emperor as if his untiringly scribbling hand had its own eyes. Now the Emperor stood. “I see,” he said, “that you want me to abdicate?”

“It is so, Your Majesty,” replied one of the ministers.

The Emperor had known it. He posed each question so as to confirm the answers he had long expected. Nonetheless he said — and it was as if a stranger were speaking through him: “The enemy is in our country. Come what may, I am a man of the people and of the soldiers. One word from me and all the representatives are done. I can still arm one hundred and thirty thousand men. The English and Prussians are weary. They may have won, but they are depleted. And the Austrians and Russians are far off!” All the ministers were silent. Once more, for the last time, they all perceived the sublime tone of the Imperial voice. They listened to him, but only to his voice itself, to the ring of his words, not to their meaning. The Emperor himself was well aware that he was speaking in vain. He broke off suddenly. Every word was useless. He was no longer interested in fighting for his throne. For the first time in his life since he had become powerful, he felt the bliss that renunciation brings. In the midst of his speech he was overcome by the grace of humility. He suddenly felt the blessing of defeat and a very, very secret satisfaction that he could on a whim order the dismissal or imprisonment — even the beheading or shooting — of these very ministers to whom he was speaking, these parliamentarians who were poised to overthrow him. If he wanted. .!