“Just a year ago it was hanging in the taproom,” he said. “Now the tavern keeper no longer feels like proving that he is a loyal subject.”
The pianola hushed up. That same instant, a wall clock struck two hard strokes.
“Two o’clock already!” said the lieutenant.
“Five more hours,” replied the regimental surgeon.
The proprietor brought some slivovitz. “Seven-twenty” hammered in the lieutenant’s brain.
He reached for the glass, raised it, and said in the strong voice trained for snapping orders, “To your health! You have to live!”
“To an easy death!” replied the regimental surgeon and drained his glass while Carl Joseph put his back on the table.
“This death is senseless,” the doctor went on. “As senseless as my life was.”
“I don’t want you to die!” shouted the lieutenant, stamping on the tiles of the kitchen floor. “And I don’t want to die either! And my life is senseless too!”
“Be quiet,” Dr. Demant replied. “You are the grandson of the Hero of Solferino. He almost died as senselessly. Though it does makes a difference whether you go to your death with his deep faith or as faintheartedly as we two.” He fell silent. “As we two,” he began after a while. “Our grandfathers did not bequeath us great strength—little strength for life, it’s just barely enough to die senselessly. Ahh!” The doctor pushed his glass aside, and it was as if he were shoving the entire world far away, including his friend. “Ahh,” he repeated, “I’m tired, I’ve been tired for years. Tomorrow I’m going to the like a hero, a so-called hero, completely against my grain, and against the grain of my forebears and my tribe and against my grandfather’s will. One of the huge old tomes he used to read says, ‘He who raiseth his hand against his neighbor is a murderer.’ Tomorrow someone is going to raise a pistol against me, and I’m going to raise a pistol against him. And I will be a murderer. But I’m nearsighted. I’m not going to take aim. I’ll have my little revenge. Without my glasses, I can see nothing at all, nothing at all, and I will shoot without seeing. That will be more natural, more honest, and altogether fitting.”
Lieutenant Trotta did not fully grasp what the doctor was saying. The doctor’s voice was familiar to him, and once he got accustomed to his friend’s mufti, his face and shape likewise grew familiar. But Dr. Demant’s thoughts came from an utterly immense distance, that immensely faraway region where Demant’s grandfather, the white-bearded king of Jewish tavern keepers, might have lived. Trotta cudgeled his brain, as he had once done in trigonometry at military school, but he understood less and less. He only felt that his new faith in the possibility of saving everything was gradually weakening, just as his hope slowly smoldered out into white, flimsy ashes, as frail as the threads glowing out over the small singing gas flame. His heart pounded as loudly as the tinny, hollow strokes of the wall clock. He did not understand his friend. Perhaps he had come too late. He had a lot more to say. But his tongue lay heavy in his mouth, burdened by weights. His lips parted. They were pale, trembling vaguely; he could barely close them.
“You must be running a temperature,” said the regimental surgeon in the exact same tone he used with patients. He rapped on the table, and the tavern keeper came over with refills. “And you haven’t even finished your first glass!”
Trotta obediently gulped down the first glass.
“I discovered drink too late—a pity!” said the doctor. “You won’t believe me, but I’m sorry I never drank.”
The lieutenant made a tremendous effort, looked up, and stared into the doctor’s face for a couple of seconds. He raised his second glass. It was heavy; his hand shook, spilling a few drops. He drained it at one gulp. Anger flared inside him, rose to his head, reddened his face.
“Well, I’m going!” he said. “I can’t stand your jokes. I was glad to find you. I tried your home. I rang. I drove to the cemetery. I shouted your name through the gate like a madman. I—” He broke off. Soundless words formed between his quivering lips, numb words, numb shadows of numb sounds. Suddenly his eyes filled with warm water, and a loud moaning came from his chest. He wanted to stand up and run away for he was terribly ashamed. Why, I’m crying! he thought. I’m crying! He felt powerless, immeasurably powerless against the incomprehensible power that forced him to weep. He willingly succumbed. He surrendered to the rapture of his powerlessness. He heard his own moaning and reveled in it; he was ashamed and he even enjoyed his shame. He threw himself into the arms of the sweet grief and kept repeating senselessly, amid constant sobs, “I don’t want you to die, I don’t want you to die, I don’t want you to! I don’t want you to!”
Dr. Demant rose, walked up and down the kitchen a few times, halted at the portrait of the Supreme Commander in Chief, began counting the black flyspecks on the Kaiser’s tunic, interrupted his absurd occupation, walked over to Carl Joseph, and gently placed his hands on his heaving shoulders. His sparkling glasses approached the lieutenant’s light-brown hair. He, the wise Dr. Demant, had already settled accounts with the world; he had sent his wife to her father in Vienna, given his orderly leave, closed down his house. He had been staying at the Golden Bear Hotel ever since the eruption of this disastrous affair. He was ready. Once he had started drinking liquor contrary to his habit, he had actually managed to find some sense in this senseless duel, to wish for death as the lawful end of a path bristling with errors—indeed, he managed to glean a shimmer of the next world, which he had always believed in. After all, long before the danger toward which he was now heading, he had been familiar with graves and dead friends. Gone was his childish love for his wife. Jealousy, painfully burning in his heart just weeks ago, was now a small pile of cold ashes. His will, just written, addressed to the colonel, was in his coat pocket. He had nothing to bequeath, few people to remember, and thus had forgotten nothing. The alcohol gave him a light head; only the waiting made him impatient. Seven-twenty, the moment that for days now had been hammering dreadfully in the brains of all his comrades, pealed in his brain like a silvery chime. For the first time since he had donned his uniform, he felt strong, brave, and lighthearted. He enjoyed the nearness of death the way a convalescent enjoys the nearness of life. He had settled accounts, he was ready!
Now he stood again, nearsighted and helpless as ever, in front of his young friend. Yes, there were still such things as youth and friendship and tears shed for him. All at once he again longed for the dreariness of his life, the disgusting garrison, the hated uniform, the dullness of routine examinations, the stench of a throng of undressed troops, the drab vaccinations, the carbolic smell of the hospital, his wife’s ugly moods, the safe confines of his house, the ash-gray workdays, the yawning Sundays, the torturous hours on horseback, the stupid maneuvers, and his own sorrow at all this emptiness. Through the lieutenant’s sobbing and moaning, the shattering call of this living earth broke violently, and while the doctor cast about for words to calm Trotta, compassion flooded his heart and love flickered in him with a thousand tongues of flame. Far behind him lay his apathy of the past few days.
Now the wall clock struck three hard strokes. Trotta suddenly fell silent. They heard the echo of the three strokes drowning slowly in the humming of the gas lamp. The lieutenant began in a steady voice.
“Don’t you see how stupid this whole business is? Taittin-ger was boring me the way he bores everyone else. So I told him I had an appointment in front of the theater that evening. Then your wife showed up alone. I had to see her home. And just as we were passing the club, they all came out into the street.”
The doctor removed his hands from Trotta’s shoulders and started wandering again. He walked almost soundlessly, with soft, attentive steps.
“I have to tell you,” the lieutenant continued, “I instantly sensed that something bad would happen. And I could barely say a civil word to your wife. And then when I was outside your garden, at your house, the streetlight was burning. I remember I could distinctly make out your footpr
ints in the snow between the garden gate and your front door, and then I had a strange idea, a crazy idea.…”
“Yes?” said the doctor, halting.
“A funny idea: for an instant I thought that your footprints were something like sentries—I can’t put it into words, I simply thought they were looking up from the snow at your wife and me.”
Dr. Demant sat down again, scrutinized Trotta, and said slowly, “Maybe you’re in love with my wife and just don’t realize it yourself?”
“None of this whole business is my fault in any way!” said Trotta.
“No, it’s not your fault,” the regimental surgeon confirmed.
“But I keep feeling that it’s my fault!” said Carl Joseph. “You know, I told you all about Frau Slama.” He fell silent. Then he whispered, “I’m scared, I’m scared everywhere.”
The regimental surgeon spread out his arms, shrugged, and said, “You too are a grandson.”
At that moment, he was not thinking about the lieutenant’s fears. It struck him as highly possible that he could still escape all the danger. Disappear! he thought. Be dishonored, degraded, serve as a private for three years or flee abroad. Avoid getting shot!
Lieutenant Trotta, grandson of the Hero of Solverino, a man from another world, was already utterly alien to him. And he said loudly and with scoffing delight, “That stupidity! That honor that hangs in the silly tassel here on the saber. One cannot escort a woman home! You see how stupid that is? Didn’t you rescue him”—he pointed at the Kaiser’s picture—“from the brothel? Idiocy!” he suddenly shouted. “Shameful idiocy!”
Someone knocked; the tavern keeper came, bringing two full glasses. The regimental surgeon drank.
“Drink!” he said.
Carl Joseph drank. He did not quite grasp what the doctor was saying, but he sensed that Demant was no longer willing to die. The clock ticked its tinny seconds. Time did not stop. Seven-twenty, seven-twenty! It would take a miracle to keep Demant from dying. Miracles did not occur, that much the lieutenant knew. He himself—a preposterous thought—would show up tomorrow morning at seven-twenty and say, “Gentlemen, Demant went crazy last night. I’m dueling in his place.” Drivel, ridiculous, impossible! He looked helplessly at the doctor again. Time did not stop; the clock kept endlessly stitching its seconds. Soon it would be 4 A.M. Three more hours!
“Well!” the regimental surgeon finally said. He sounded as if he had already made up his mind, as if he knew precisely what was to be done. But he knew nothing precisely. His thoughts drifted, blind and incoherent, along confused trails through the blind fog. He knew nothing. A contemptible, shameful, stupid, powerful iron-clad law was fettering him, sending him fettered to a stupid death. He caught the late-night sounds from the taproom. Clearly no one was left there. The tavern keeper was plunging the clinking beer glasses into the plashing water, shoving the chairs together, pushing tables aright, jingling his keys. They had to go. The street, the winter, the nightly sky, its stars, its snow might offer counsel and comfort. The physician went to the tavern keeper, paid, came back in his overcoat; black, in a broad soft hat, he stood, muffled up and transformed once more, in front of the lieutenant. He looked armed, far better armed than he had ever been in his uniform with saber and cap.
They walked across the courtyard, back through the corridor, into the night. The doctor looked up at the sky. The silent stars offered no counsel; they were colder than the snow all around. The houses were dark, the streets deaf and dumb, the night wind blasted the snow into powder, Trotta’s spurs jingled softly, the doctor’s boot soles crunched next to them. They hurried as if toward a specific goal. Shreds of ideas, of thoughts, of images raced through their minds. Their hearts pounded like swift, heavy hammers. Unwittingly the regimental surgeon set the direction; unwittingly the lieutenant followed him. They approached the Golden Bear Hotel. They stood in its arched doorway. In Carl Joseph’s imagination, the image of Grandfather Demant awoke, the silver-bearded king of the Jewish tavern keepers. All his life, he had sat at such a gateway—a much bigger one, probably. He would rise to his feet when the farmers drew up. Since he could no longer hear, the little farmers would cup their hands on their mouths and yell out their orders. Seven-twenty, seven-twenty: it came again. At seven-twenty the grandson of that grandfather would be dead.
“Dead!” the lieutenant said aloud. Oh, he was wise no longer, that wise Dr. Demant. For a couple of days he had been free and brave for nothing; it was now obvious that he had not settled accounts. It was not easy settling things. His wise mind, inherited from a long long line of wise forebears, was as helpless as the simple mind of the lieutenant, whose ancestors had been the simple peasants of Sipolje. An obtuse iron-clad law had no loophole.
“I’m a fool, my dear friend,” said the doctor. “I should have left Eva long ago. I don’t have the strength to avoid this stupid duel. I’m going to be a hero out of stupidity, according to the code of honor and military regulations. A hero!” He laughed. His mirth rang through the night. “A hero!” he repeated, trudging up and down in front of the hotel entrance.
A childish hope whizzed through the lieutenant’s youthful mind, which was ready to grab at any straw: they won’t shoot at each other, they’ll reconcile! Everything will work out! They’ll be transferred to other regiments! So will I! Stupid, ridiculous, impossible, he instantly thought. And, lost, desperate, with a numb brain, dry palate, leaden limbs, he stood motionless before the doctor, who was walking to and fro.
What time was it? He did not dare look at his watch. The tower clock would be striking soon anyway. He would wait. “If we don’t meet again—” the doctor broke off and then said, a few moments later, “I advise you to leave the army.” Then he held out his hand. “Farewell! Go home! I’ll manage by myself. So long!”
He tugged the bell wire. The buzzing resounded from the interior. Footsteps were already approaching. The door opened. Lieutenant Trotta took hold of the doctor’s hand. In a normal voice that amazed him, too, he articulated a normal “So long.” He had not even slipped off his glove. The door was already shut. There was already no Dr. Demant. As if drawn by an invisible hand, Lieutenant Trotta followed the usual route to the barracks. He did not hear a window being unlatched two stories overhead. The doctor leaned out once again, saw his friend vanish round the corner, closed the window, switched on all the lights in the room, walked over to the washstand, stropped his razor, tested it on his thumbnail, and soaped his face calmly, as on any other morning. He washed. He took the uniform from the closet. He dressed, buckled on the saber, and waited. He nodded off. He slept a calm, dreamless sleep in the wide armchair at the window.
When he awoke, the sky over the roofs was already bright; a dainty shimmer was turning blue across the snow. Soon someone would knock. He could already hear the distant jingling of a sleigh. It drew closer it halted. Now the doorbell rang. Now the stairs creaked. Now the spurs jingled. Now someone knocked.
Now they stood in the room, First Lieutenant Christ and Captain Wangert of the garrison infantry. They remained near the door, the lieutenant half a pace behind the captain. The regimental surgeon glanced at the sky. A distant echo from a distant childhood, his grandfather’s faded voice reverberated. Hear, O Israel, said the voice, the Lord our God, the Lord is One.
“I’m ready, gentlemen!” said the regimental surgeon.
They sat, a bit crowded, in small sleighs; the bells jingled bravely, the brown horses raised their cropped tails and dropped big, round, yellow steaming turds on the snow. The regimental surgeon, who had been indifferent to all animals throughout his life, suddenly felt homesick for his horse. He will survive me! he thought. His face betrayed nothing. His companions were silent.
They halted some hundred paces from the glade. They reached the Green Square on foot. It was already morning, but the sun had not yet risen. The firs stood hushed; slender and upright, they proudly bore the snow on their branches. Far away, roosters crowed and crowed back. Tattenbach spoke lou
dly to his seconds. The head surgeon, Dr. Mangel, walked to and fro between the groups.
“Gentlemen!” a voice said. At that instant, Regimental Surgeon Dr. Demant took off his glasses as fussily as ever and placed them carefully upon a wide tree stump. Oddly enough, he could still clearly see his path, the designated place, the distance between himself and Count Tattenbach, and he saw the count himself. He waited. Until the final moment, he waited for the fog. But everything remained clear, as if the regimental surgeon had never been nearsighted. A voice counted, “One!” The regimental surgeon raised the pistol. He felt free and brave again, indeed, cocky—for the first time in his life he felt cocky. He aimed as the one-year volunteer had once aimed during target practice, even though he had already been a miserable shot back then. Why, I’m not nearsighted, he thought, I’ll never need glasses again. From a medical standpoint, it was inexplicable. The regimental surgeon decided to check with ophthalmologists. At the very instant that the name of a certain specialist flashed through his mind, the voice counted, “Two!” The doctor could still see clearly. A shy bird of an unknown species began chirping, and from far away came the blaring of the bugles. It was at this time that the lancer regiment normally reached its drilling ground.
Lieutenant Trotta rode in the second squadron as on any other day. The matte breath of the frost beaded on the sheaths of the heavy sabers and on the barrels of the light carbines. The frozen bugles awoke the sleeping town. The coachmen in their thick furs, at their usual station, raised their bearded heads. When the regiment reached the water meadow and dismounted, and the troops as usual formed a double line for early morning exercises, Lieutenant Kindermann stepped over to Carl Joseph and said, “Are you sick? Do you have any idea what you look like?” He pulled out a coquettish pocket mirror and held it up to Trotta’s eyes. In the small shimmering rectangle, Lieutenant Trotta spotted an ancient face that he was very familiar with: small black glowing eyes, the sharp bony ridge of a large nose, hollow ashen cheeks, and long thin clenched bloodless lips, which, like an old saber scar, isolated the chin from the moustache. Only that small brown moustache seemed alien to Carl Joseph. At home, under the ceiling of his father’s study, his grandfather’s blurring face had been stark naked.