The Vienna Melody (37 page)

That I am serving under Hermann naturally also contributes to my well-being. We need men like him in these times. Not pitiful weaklings who drool about humanity.

Do you see Selma? Please, be good to her!

I long for you all, for you, for her, for Mono. When you get a chance, send me some books.

YOUR HANS

 

In this letter the censor had inserted the word “not” before the phrase “to serve as a target for these whistling beans.”

Since the arrival of this letter Henriette had not slept. His helpless cry for rescue had reverberated in the sweet green quiet of this summer holiday resort where people were holding tennis tournaments, going on afternoon outings, dancing in the Zauner restaurant in the Pfarrgasse, or else playing tarot on the terrace at the Café Walter. She had racked her brains until the idea came to her of sending the telegram, the answer to which she was now awaiting by a long-distance call from Vienna.

At last it came. Herr Simmerl announced that someone was calling madam, and Henriette heard the old man's voice of Count Hoyos, who, when he was young, had travelled on her account to Pope Leo XIII: “Now then, lovely lady, everything has been set in motion in the right direction.” But when in a wave of joy she wanted to find out more about it, all he would say was, “Don't be too impatient, lovely lady; a few days more or less are of no consequence. You will hear from me again! I kiss your hands!”

With that the telephone conversation and her wave of joy were summarily ended. In the few days which were of no consequence the word “not,” which the censor had so stupidly inserted in Hans's letter, might long since have lost its meaning.

How does one bear it? she thought to herself once again. She went back to her bench in the garden and looked across to the modest yellow summer home with the green blinds. There lived the man on whom it depended. For a moment the thought Hashed through her mind: What if I went to him myself? I gave him back his son. Perhaps he will give me mine? But as swiftly as it had come it vanished again. That man down in the Imperial villa had not lifted a finger when little Pauline, who had disturbed his marriage ceremony, begged humbly for forgiveness; the chronicles of the house revealed that. He had not moved a muscle when he had put the question of his life to her; Henriette recalled that. He had maintained his impeccable attitude when the coffin of his murdered wife was sunk into the Capuchin crypt; she was there and saw it. He was not human.

In one of the fourteen hundred and forty-one rooms of the yellow baroque castle of Schönbrunn Francis Joseph was preparing to die. His apartments were in the left wing of the low, two-winged building, in the extreme right end of which he had been born eighty-six years earlier.

The doctors had left him at three-forty-five in the afternoon. Out in the corridor (because of the coal shortage the Emperor occupied only two tiny rooms, in either one of which you could hear every word spoken in the other) Dr. Ortner had given his instructions to Ketterl, His Majesty's valet: continuous steaming, to the extent possible on an alcohol burner; every two hours a powder compounded of phenacetin and caffeine; in case of paroxysms of coughing, lukewarm marshmallow root tea; at 7
P.M.
temperature to be taken. In the event of any alarming change in His Majesty's condition Dr. Kerzl or his assistant, Dr. Baier, to be notified at once. And the patient was not to be left alone even for a second.

“Very well, Herr Hofrat,” the valet had said.

Then the doctors had withdrawn, and Ketterl had gone back to his master.

The Emperor lay with closed eyes on the narrow iron army cot on which he had spent most of the nights of his life.

“Your Majesty must take this powder,” said the Imperial valet.

Francis Joseph shook his head.

“But Herr Hofrat Ortner insists on it,” the servant ventured to say to the man on the army cot whom he had served for forty-seven years and whose every expression and gesture he knew. That he was desperately ill was no secret to the valet. That he would die was known only to the dying man. He refused to take the powder, and so it was left. A little later he fell asleep.

Sitting at the foot of the iron bedstead, Ketterl watched every breath of the sleeping man. He rasped now and then, but that was nothing unusual for him. In this cursed huge and unheatable castle, with its icy corridors and staircases, he had caught bronchitis one time after another. But would he exchange this place for a healthier one? Nothing of the kind! Hadn't that intelligent young assistant to the Imperial physician suggested only the day before yesterday that His Majesty should go to Semmering for a few days of recreation? “Tell the young man not to try any such foolishness on me,” had been the response given Ketterl to convey to Dr. Baier from his master.

No dog would want to live as he did! In two tiny rooms, up at four in the morning, at work by four-thirty, and with no pause until his evening meal. His breakfast and lunch were served on a tray on his desk; he did not even look at what he ate. Nothing but official papers. Nothing but audiences. Yet of all the people who came to him year in and year out, and who all wanted something from him, there was not one who would so much as ask: “How is Your Majesty? Did Your Majesty have a good night?” Of course no one was supposed to put questions to an emperor. But not even the Imperial family bothered about him! Archduchess Marie Valerie, his daughter, came sometimes but left almost immediately. Or Princess Windischgrätz, his granddaughter, and she too went away immediately. Dear God in heaven, there was not a more neglected person in the whole world. If it were not for Frau Schratt, who now and then saw to it that he had some proper food or took him out for a half-hour drive, he would not have had a soul near him. Except for me, thought the servant.

His Majesty seemed to benefit by his slumber. His cheeks, which had been the color of parchment, were now tinged with a healthy pink. He had a marvellous constitution indeed!

How early it grew dark! In the palace courtyard the arc lights were already burning. Ketterl tiptoed to the windows and drew the heavy brown velvet curtains and fastened them together with a pin he carried under the lapel of his livery. At least those annoying outside lamps would not throw any light on to the bed.

The Emperor murmured.

“Yes, Your Majesty?” said Ketterl, thinking he was speaking to him.

The sick man's lips, barely visible in the' dark, were moving. Sometimes they formed an incomprehensible word, again and again. His breath was more rapid now.

“Your Majesty!” said the servant, who felt it was his duty to interrupt these uneasy dreams.

Francis Joseph awoke and pointed to his old gold pocket watch on the night stand.

“Gone four-thirty, Your Majesty,” answered the servant, who understood the gesture. “Does Your Majesty feel better?”

“Has anyone been here?” asked the Emperor, pausing between each word.

“Not just now. Before Herr Hofrat Ortner came Prince Montenuovo and Baron Bolfras were here.”

A questioning movement of the head, concerning Baron Bolfras.

“He wanted to submit a telegram from the front, Your Majesty. It was from General von Falkenhayn, so His Excellency said.”

A gesture with the index finger.

“But Your Majesty must not have any light! That is bad for the eyes.”

Francis Joseph said, “Carry on,”

So the servant lit a candle on the nightstand, for His Majesty did not like electric lights. When he handed him his glasses along with the telegram he noticed how hot the invalid's hand was.

“Krakow, in Wallachia, has been taken,” the Emperor said with difficulty.

“That is good news, Your Majesty, isn't it?”

A gesture for the candle to be put out.

It was done. For a while there was no sound except of rough, rapid breathing. Then Ketterl heard his master say: “Fetch Bishop Seydl.”

That frightened the servant so that he could not answer at once. Only that very morning, when Archduchess Marie Valerie had brought a special blessing from His Holiness the Pope, His Majesty had been angry that His Holiness had been disturbed because of an ordinary attack of bronchitis.

“Immediately,” replied Ketterl, as soon as he was able to speak. Half an hour later the bishop of the Court Chapel, Dr. Seydl, was sitting in the dark room at the Emperor's bedside. A movement of the head had sent Ketterl into the next room, from which one overheard everything, even when one did not wish to do so.

“I desire to make my confession,” Francis Joseph said to the priest, who for untold years bad received his confessions and who, like all the other functionaries of the court, had grown old with him.

Ketterl considered going out into the corridor. But he did not dare to. Dr. Ortner had ordered him not to leave the invalid alone for a second. So he stayed.

The bishop spoke. His Majesty replied, pausing between words, “I no longer have any time for that.”

“But, Your Majesty” the bishop said, “tomorrow or the day after you will be quite restored to health!”

“I believe that you are mistaken,” the Emperor said. Then for a long time they whispered.

“
Et cum spiritu tuo
,” came His Majesty's voice. A pause. Then His Majesty apparently asked a question, for Dr. Seydl said: “Neither from the religious nor the human standpoint. It would have been quite incompatible with the exalted duty of the Emperor to favor the divorce of the Crown Prince.”

“I thought so,” the Emperor replied. “But he did not.” Further whispering. Again Dr. Seydl replied, “For that too Your Majesty need not reproach, yourself. Her Majesty the Empress's turn of mind was not endowed for matters of State. All her interests were directed to fields which Your Majesty lacked not the will but the time to cultivate.”

“The will, too,” His Majesty said. Ketterl heard him repeat, “The will, too.” He continued murmuring. The bishop's voice said, “If Your Majesty will permit I shall lean a little closer. Then Your Majesty will not have to make such an effort. Now I hear every word.”

The servant heard no sound for so long that he grew stiff with fear. Finally the bishop said: “I know what Your Majesty has in mind, and it makes me sad to see that you doubt the unquestionable greatness of your services to Austria. The care to maintain in undiminished form the possessions and position of the Imperial House, a care never absent during an entire reign, is not open to the slightest reproach of personal ambition. Your Majesty never had anything in mind except the welfare of your lands and subjects, which in turn depended entirely on the undiminished power of their ruling house to protect them.”

Now His Majesty's answer came in a clear tone, “I thank you, my Lord Bishop.”

“I wish Your Majesty a good recovery.”

“I thank you,” again came His Majesty's reply.

Then the bishop felt his way to the door and the Imperial valet returned to his post in the dark room.

“Are you there, Ketterl?” His Majesty asked.

“At Your Majesty's service,” the servant answered.

“I feel better. Light a candle and give me the documents on my desk and my glasses,” was his request. “I want to catch up the amount I fell behind today.”

“Your Majesty should know that when Your Majesty is well again, Your Majesty should let these documents be, and allow himself a bit of a holiday and happiness,'' suggested the servant, overjoyed that the sick man was so much better and vexed that his mind was already on the pile of papers.

“Holidays and happiness?” was the astonished answer of the man who had become Emperor at eighteen. “Then it would be the first time in my life.”

As Ketterl was straightening his pillows and helping him to sit up he was seized with a paroxysm of coughing.

“A deep breath!” the valet told him as he always did on such occasions. “A nice breath of damp steam, Your Majesty!”

Struggling for breath, Francis Joseph made his usual retort, “Nonsense!” But when he saw the injured expression on his: servant's face he smiled slightly and added, “Thank you, Ketterl.”

Ketterl smiled too. We get along perfectly, he thought. You just have to know him, then you get along with him perfectly. And as if to reward his master for his thoughtfulness, he carried a very small part of the documents asked for to his bedside!

“Here are the papers,” he said, and allowed himself to admonish the man who refused to fall behind his schedule even for one day. “Don't work too hard, Your Majesty.”

But this time the Emperor took neither the papers nor the pen offered him.

Young Dr. Baier told them this story of the Emperor's death. He told it in the words of the valet, who had come for him a few minutes after the Emperor's death. Since Schönbrunn Castle could no longer be heated on account of the coal shortage, Dr. Baier and his bride were now living at Number 10. He repeated what Ketterl, between constant sobs, had confided to him. Henriette, Franziska, and Martha Monica listened.

The “few days” that Henriette had been told over a year ago to be patient had still not passed, and Hans was lying in the field hospital of Kragujevac, ill with spotted typhus, but had not yet had any leave. Even after he was well Count Hoyos had again promised to obtain a leave for him “at once”; for unknown reasons, however, it had not been of the slightest avail, and he had been transferred from Serbia to Poland. Hermann, on the other hand, had come home for a fortnight's leave, was the possessor of the cross of military merit with swords, and had returned long since to Serbia. Franz, at headquarters, had been promoted to the rank of captain; Mr. Foedermayer received instructions from him for the factory regularly once a week.

“Don't you too think that the war will be over sooner now that the Emperor has died?” Martha Monica asked through the door of the little room with a single window which she occupied in Hans's stead. It was almost midnight, but she knew it was never too late to talk to her mother.