Free The Radetzky March by Joseph Roth Page A

teachers, and all the junior officers likewise thought about it, and so indeed nothing could happen to Carl Joseph. Although he was not an excellent horseman, was weak in topography, and had utterly failed trigonometry, he was graduated “with a good average,” given a lieutenant’s commission, and assigned to the Tenth Lancers.
    His eyes intoxicated with his own new glory and the commencement mass, his ears ringing with the colonel’s thunderous farewell speeches, his body sporting the azure tunic with gold buttons, the silver bandolier with its august golden two-headed eagle on its back, the
czapka
with a metal chinstrap, the horsehair plume in his left hand, bright-red jodhpurs, mirrorlike boots,and singing spurs, and on his hip the broad-hilted saber: that was how Carl Joseph presented himself to his father one hot summer day. This time it was not a Sunday. A lieutenant could also arrive on a Wednesday.
    The district captain was sitting in his study. “Make yourself comfortable!” he said. He took off the pince-nez, squinted, stood up, scrutinized his son, and found everything in order. He hugged Carl Joseph. They kissed one another casually on the cheek. “Sit down!” said the district captain, pressing the lieutenant into a chair. He himself then paced up and down the room. He was casting about for a suitable approach. A rebuke was not appropriate this time, nor could one start on a note of satisfaction.
    “You should now,” he finally said, “study the history of your regiment and read a bit in the history of the regiment in which your grandfather fought. I have to spend two days in Vienna on business. You’ll be accompanying me.” Then he swung the handbell. Jacques came. “Fräulein Hirschwitz,” the district captain commanded, “is to have some wine brought up today and, if possible, prepare beef and cherry dumplings. Today we’re lunching twenty minutes later than usual.”
    “Yessir, Herr Baron,” said Jacques. He looked at Carl Joseph and whispered, “Congratulations!”
    The district captain went to the window; the scene threatened to turn poignant. Behind his back he heard his son shaking the butler’s hand, Jacques scraping his feet, murmuring something unintelligible about the deceased lord. The father turned around only after Jacques left the room.
    “It’s hot, isn’t it?” the old man began.
    “Yessir, Pápa!”
    “I think we out to go out.”
    “Yessir, Pápa!”
    The district captain took the black ebony stick with the silver pommel, not the yellow cane that he ordinarily liked to carry on bright mornings. Nor did he hold his gloves in his left hand, he slipped them on. He donned his silk hat and left the room, followed by the boy. Slowly and without exchanging a word, they walked through the summery stillness of the town park.The town policeman saluted. Men rose from the banks and greeted them. Next to the old man’s dark gravity, the boy’s jingling colorfulness seemed even noisier and more radiant. At the park promenade, where a light-blond girl under a red sunshade was pouring soda water with raspberry juice, the old man halted and said, “A cool drink couldn’t hurt!” He ordered two sodas plain and, with stealthy dignity, observed the blond girl, who, lustful and will-less, seemed utterly absorbed in Carl Joseph’s colorful effulgence. They drank and walked on. Sometimes the district captain swung his cane slightly; it hinted at an exuberance that knows where to stop. Though his usual silent and earnest self, today he struck his son as almost breezy. From his cheery interior, a slight coughing occasionally broke forth, a kind of laughter. If someone greeted him, he briefly raised his hat. There were moments when he even ventured to come out with bold paradoxes: for example, “Politeness too can become burdensome!” He preferred to say something daring rather than betray his delight at the astonished looks from passersby. As they were approaching the front gates of