Joseph Roth - The Hundred Days

Then he left.

He strode through the hall, occasionally offering a half-hearted greeting to an acquaintance without lifting his head. His steps were silent. He walked gently in light shoes, as though in stockinged feet, down the stone steps, past the crouching, lying, and snoring dragoons, into the garden, past the whinnying and pawing horses, past the half-lit rooms and not yet fully closed doors. He moved carefully among the strewn harnesses and leather gear. When he stood before the gate he whistled softly. His secretary appeared. “Good morning, Gaillard,” he said. “We’re policemen again. He can only make war and not politics! In three months I will be more than him!” He indicated with his finger backward over his shoulder toward the palace.

“It already looks like an army camp,” said Gaillard.

“It already looks like war,” replied the Minister.

“Yes,” said Gaillard. “But a lost one.”

Side by side, like brothers, they went down the street into the late-night mist, completely at home in it, and soon completely enveloped by it.

Time was inexorable, appearing to the Emperor to pass more rapidly than ever before in his life. Sometimes he had the humiliating feeling that it no longer obeyed him as it had years ago. Years ago! he said to himself and started to calculate, then caught himself at it, thinking and counting like an old man. Previously he alone had ordained and directed the course of the hours. It was he who shaped and filled them, it was his might and name that they proclaimed in many corners of the world. These days, perhaps the people still obeyed him, but time was fleeing from him, melting away and vanishing whenever he attempted to grasp it. Or maybe the people no longer obeyed him either! To think, he had only left them on their own for a brief while. For a few short months they had ceased to feel his taming, alluring glance, the firm yet flattering touch of his hand, the threatening and tender, the harsh and seductive tones of his voice. No, they certainly had not forgotten him — could anyone forget a man of his kind? — but they had lost touch with him. They had lived without him, many of them even turning against him and falling into league with his royal enemies. They had grown accustomed to living without him.

He sat there, alone amid a frequently changing selection of acquaintances and friends. Soon his brothers, sisters, and mother came. Time passed. It grew brighter and warmer, and the spring of Paris became vigorous and magnificent. It seemed practically like summer. The blackbirds warbled in the Tuileries gardens, and the lilacs had already begun to emit their deliberate, strong fragrance. On many an evening the Emperor could hear the nightingale’s song as he walked alone through the garden, hands behind his back, gaze lowered toward the gravel pathway. Spring had arrived. At such times he realized that all his life he had been aware of the ever-changing seasons in the same way that he had been used to taking notice of favorable or unfavorable opportunities, of precisely followed or completely misunderstood orders, of agreeable or objectionable situations, of Nature’s benevolent or malevolent moods. The earth was a terrain, the sky a friend or enemy, the hill an observation point, the valley a trap, the brook an obstacle, the mountain a shelter, the forest an ambush, the night a respite, the morning an offensive, daytime a battle, and evening a victory or a defeat. It had been that simple. Years ago! thought the Emperor.

He returned home. He wanted to see the painting of his son. In gloomy times he longed for his child more than his own mother. Abnormal as he was, the product of a caprice of Nature, it was as if he had perverted its laws, and he was no longer the child of his race, but had in truth become the father of his forefathers. His ancestors lived through his name. And Nature was vengeful — he knew that! Since it had allowed him to endow his forefathers with glory, it was bound to keep him apart from his own offspring. My child! thought the Emperor. He thought of his son with the tenderness of a father, of a mother, and also that of a child. My unhappy child! he thought. He is my son — is he also my heir? Is Nature so benevolent that she will bring forth my mirror image? I have fathered him; he was born to me. I want to see him.

He looked upon the picture, at the chubby-cheeked face of the King of Rome. He was a good, round child, like thousands of others, healthy and innocent. His soft eyes gazed out with devotion into the still unknown, terrible, beautiful, and dangerous world. He is my blood! thought the Emperor. There will be nothing left to conquer, but he will be able to preserve what he has. I have good advice for him. . yet I cannot see him!

The Emperor took a couple of steps back. It was late afternoon, and the twilight seeped through the open window and crept slowly up the walls. The dark clothes of the Imperial son merged with it imperceptibly. Only his sweet and distant face continued to shine with a pale luminosity.

On the table was an hourglass of polished beryl. Through its narrow neck, filling the bottom bulb, flowed a relentless stream of soft yellowish sand. It seemed only to be a slow trickle, yet the bottom appeared to fill quickly. Thus the Emperor had his enemy, Time, constantly before his eyes. He often amused himself with the childish game of tipping the glass before the sand had finished its journey. He believed in the mysterious significance of dates, days, and hours. He had returned on March 20. His son had been born on March 20. And it was on March 20 that he had one of his guileless enemies executed — the Duke of Enghien. The Emperor had an excellent memory — but so did the dead. How long until the dead took their revenge?

The Emperor heard the hours passing even when speaking to his ministers, friends, or advisors, and also when outside, before the windows, the frenzied crowd was issuing its shouts. The patient, measured, uniform voice of the clock was stronger than the roaring of the masses. And he loved it more than the voice of the people. The people were fickle friends, but Time was a loyal enemy. Those hateful cries still rang in his ears, the ones he had heard when he departed the country ten months earlier, vanquished and powerless. Every jubilant shout from this crowd was a painful reminder of each of the hateful cries of the other crowd.

Oh! He still had to rally those who were unsteady in their faith, to make the liars believe they were not lying to him and to show love to those he did not love. He envied his enemy, the lethargic old king who had fled with his arrival. The King had ruled in God’s name and through the strength of his ancestors alone had kept the peace. He, however, the Emperor, had to make war. He was only the general of his soldiers.

It was a mild morning in April. The Emperor left the palace. He rode through the city on his white horse, wrapped in his gray military cloak, wearing his martial yet delicate boots of soft kid leather on which his gallant silver spurs shimmered menacingly, black hat on lowered head, which from time to time he unexpectedly lifted as though he were suddenly coming out of deep meditation. He paced his animal. It drummed with its hooves softly and evenly upon the stones. As those who watched the Emperor ride by heard the patter of the horse’s hooves, they had the feeling they were listening to the hypnotic, measured call of threatening war drums. They remained still, removed their hats, and shouted “Long live the Emperor!” — moved, unsettled, and also certainly shocked at the sight of him. They knew this image from the thousands of portraits that hung in their rooms and the rooms of their friends, decorated the edges of the plates from which they ate each day, the cups from which they drank, and the metallic handles of the knives with which they sliced their bread. It was an intimate, familiar, yes, quite familiar picture of the great Emperor in his gray cloak and his black hat on his white horse. That was the reason they were often startled when they saw it come to life — the living Emperor, the living horse, the genuine cloak, the actual hat.