Joseph Roth - The Hundred Days

But he did not want. It was a blissful feeling, one he was experiencing for the first time, to be capable of something and not wish to do it. Throughout his entire endlessly rich and full life he had always desired and wished for more than any earthly inhabitant could be granted. Now, for the first time and in his very hour of disgrace and defeat, he had great power but did not want it. It was a euphoric feeling. It was as if he held a sharpened sword in his hand, one that made him happy precisely because it remained unused. He who had always believed that one must strike, and with precision, was now experiencing his first foreboding of the happiness that comes from weakness and is a gift of humility. For the first time in his strong and proud life, he knew of the nobility of the weak, the defeated, and the abdicated. For the first time in his life he felt the desire to be a servant not a master. For the first time in his life he felt he had much to atone for because he had sinned so greatly. And it seemed to him that to save his soul he had to open the hand holding the honed sword, so it would fall harmless and humble as he himself was at this moment.

Yet there still breathed another within him, namely the old Emperor Napoleon, and it was he who now began to speak to the ministers again. He could have a new army in two weeks; he could certainly defeat the enemy, so said the Napoleon of old. But he already knew that he would not be able to convince the deputies as he might the ministers. He hated the lawyers, and he well knew he could oust them, but he hated them too much to use force against them. In any event he who had always been violent no longer desired violence. He had used enough force! He wanted to abdicate. He no longer wanted to be Emperor. Occasionally out of the distance yet ever clearer he believed he could hear a call, sorrow’s seductive call. The voice became gradually louder and even more distinct than the shouts of “Long live the Emperor!” from the people outside the palace. For they were still shouting before the windows: “Long live the Emperor!” Poor friends, he thought, they love me, and I love them as well; they have died for me and they live for me, but I was unable to die for them. They want to see me mighty, so great is their love for me! I, however, I now love powerlessness. It is impotence that I love! I was for so long miserable in my might: I will be insignificant and happy!

But the people still continued to cry: “Long live the Emperor!” as if they knew what he was thinking and wanted not so much to pay him tribute as to remind him that he was their Emperor and that he must remain their Emperor. There were moments when these cries reached the very core of his being, and thus he knew that his old arrogance still lived within his heart. This old Imperial arrogance answered the cries, unheard by the crowd but strong within the Emperor’s breast: “They call to me, so I am still their Emperor,” said that old arrogance within his chest. But then another voice spoke from within: “I am more than an Emperor. I am an Emperor who abdicates. I hold a sword in my hand and I let it drop. I sit on a throne and I hear the woodworms gnawing away. I sit on a throne but already see myself lying in a coffin. I hold a scepter but I wish for a cross. Yes, I wish for a cross!”

That night found him sleepless. It was somber and sultry. All the millions of stars were up in the silvery blue heavens, but when the Emperor gazed at them, they seemed not to be real stars, just the pale, distant images of genuine stars. That night he once again felt he could see right through the seemingly sublime intentions of the Ruler of the Universe. He had yet to really know God but he now believed he could see right through Him. The Emperor believed that God too was an Emperor but a wiser, more cautious and therefore more lasting one. He, however, the Emperor Napoleon, had been foolish through arrogance; he had lost power through arrogance. Without that arrogance, he too could have been God, created the blue dome of the heavens, regulated the brilliance and position of the stars, and orchestrated the direction of the wind, the drifting of the clouds, the passage of the birds, and the destiny of man. But he, the Emperor, was more modest than God, carelessly generous and thoughtlessly magnanimous.

He opened the wide windows. He could hear the cheerful monotonous song of the crickets in the park. He detected the rich peaceful fragrance of the summer night, the overpowering lilac and the cloying acacias. All of it made him furious.

No longer did he want a throne or a crown, a palace or a scepter. He wanted to be as simple as one of the thousands of soldiers who had died for him and for the country of France. He hated the people who tomorrow or the following day would force him to abdicate; but he was also thankful to them for forcing him to resign. He despised his power but also his lack of power. No longer did he want to be Emperor, yet he wanted to remain Emperor. Now at this very hour they were debating in the House of Deputies whether he should remain Emperor or not.

Restless and lost, he paced, stopped a moment at the open window, turned around again, sat at the table, opened its hidden drawer, and attempted to organize his papers into three piles. Some were harmless and could stay; others were sensitive and had to be destroyed; still others he wished to keep and even take with him. He held a few of the letters to the golden flame of the wax candles. He mindlessly allowed the ash to scatter on to the table and the rug. Suddenly he stopped, gently replaced the condemned papers, and began anew his pacing. It had occurred to him that it was perhaps too soon to destroy these letters and he was gripped by a fear, his old superstitious fear that he might have carelessly given Fate a hint, a sign. This thought wearied him, and he tried to stretch out on the sofa. But as soon as he lay down, he felt more helpless than ever. Black worries seemed to be swooping down upon him like sinister crows on a corpse. He needed to get up. He looked again at the sky and then checked the time. This night was endless. Confused visions ran across his mind; meaningless images with no temporal reference rose up as if from totally different and newly unlocked compartments of his memory. Meekly he gave in to them, sat down, supported his head with his hands, and fell asleep in his chair.

The first hesitating call of a newly risen bird woke him. Day was dawning and a gentle wind softly swayed the crowns of the trees and blew the high casement windows. They creaked a bit on their hinges, startling the Emperor. He left the room. His servant, who was nestled on a chair outside the door, sprang up and made ready to follow him. But the guard at the gate, although standing fully upright with weapon shouldered, was in a deep sleep. He was quite a young lad, and a soft and delicate little black mustache grew above his lips, which opened and closed with every breath, while his chubby peasant cheeks were as pink as if he had not fallen asleep erect, weapon on shoulder, but rather at home at his girl’s side. Perhaps one day my son will look like that, thought the Emperor. “And I won’t see him. Such a mustache will sprout on his upper lip, and he too will be able to sleep standing, but I will not live to see it.” He put out his hand and tugged the young man’s earlobe. The soldier jerked awake and forced his round golden-brown eyes wide open, looking like a startled, uniformed fawn. It took him a few seconds to recognize the Emperor, at which point he mechanically presented arms, still half asleep yet already anxious and frightened. The Emperor left him standing there and continued on.

All the birds were celebrating the jubilant morning. The wind had subsided and the trees stood motionless in a still, light-blue splendor as if rooted for all eternity. This is the last day, thought the Emperor, that I will still be the Emperor of France. Yes, that was already definite. The morning itself seemed to say so; the birds were celebrating in all too spiteful and shrill voices and even the sun, which had now emerged above the thick and lush greenery, bore a malevolent yellowish-red face. The Emperor did not feel the summer calm of the morning, nor did he wish to. Nevertheless, while he walked for a few seconds with his eyes closed, he felt that God and His world had good intentions for him and that other men in his place, in this very garden at this very hour, in the blue-green-golden shimmer of the rising day, would have been thankful, humble, and happy. But the morning seemed to be mocking him. God’s eternal sun was rising, rising as it had done from the beginning of time, as if nothing had happened, on the very day his, the Emperor’s, own sun was setting. Night! It still should be night! And to avoid seeing the day grow any brighter, the Emperor suddenly turned around. He ordered the curtains drawn. He wanted to have a few more hours of night.