The Radetzky March by Joseph Roth

early mass, the boy stood in his Sunday uniform outside his father’s door. At five minutes to nine, Jacques, in his gray butler’s livery, came down the stairs and said, “Young master, your Herr Papá is coming.” Carl Joseph gave his coat a last tug, adjusted the waist belt, took off the cap, and, as prescribed by regulations, propped it against his hip.
    The father arrived; the son clicked his heels; the noise snapped through the hushed old house. The old man opened the door and with a slight wave of his hand motioned for his son to precede him. The boy stood still; he did not respond to the invitation. So the father stepped through the door. Carl Joseph followed but paused on the threshold. “Make yourself comfortable!” said the district captain after a while. It was only now that Carl Joseph walked over to the large red–plush armchair and sat down opposite his father, his knees drawn up stiffly and the cap and white gloves upon them. Through the narrow cracks of the green Venetian blinds, narrow stripes of sunshine fell upon the dark-red carpet. A fly buzzed, the wall clock began to strike. After the nine golden strokes faded, the district captain began.
    “How is Herr Colonel Marek?”
    “Thank you, Papá, he’s fine.”
    “Still weak in geometry?”
    “Thank you, Papá, a little better.”
    “Read any books?”
    “Yessir, Papá!”
    “How’s your horsemanship? Last year, it wasn’t special.”
    “This year—” Carl Joseph began, but was promptly interrupted. His father had stretched out his narrow hand, which lay half hidden in the round shiny cuff. The huge square cufflink glittered golden.
    “It wasn’t special, I just said. It was—“here the district captain paused and then said in a toneless voice, “a disgrace.”
    Father and son remained silent. As soft as the word “disgrace” had been, it was still wafting through the room. Carl Joseph knew that a pause had to be observed after a severe critique from his father. The censure had to be absorbed in its full significance, pondered, stamped upon the mind, and imprinted on the heart and the brain. The clock ticked, the fly buzzed.
    “This year it was a lot better,” Carl Joseph began in a clear voice. “The sergeant often said so himself. I also received praise from Herr First Lieutenant Koppel.”
    “Glad to hear it,” the Herr District Captain remarked in a doomsday voice. Using the edge of the table, he pushed the cuff back into the sleeve; there was a harsh rattle. “Keep talking!” he said, lighting a cigarette. It was the signal for the start of relaxation. Carl Joseph put his cap and his gloves on a small desk, got to his feet, and began reciting all the events of the last year. The old man nodded. Suddenly he said, “You’re a big boy, my son. Your voice is changing. Are you in love yet?”
    Carl Joseph turned red. His face burned like a red lantern, but he held it bravely toward his father.
    “So, not yet!” said the district captain. “Don’t let me disturb you. Carry on!”
    Carl Joseph gulped, the redness faded, he was suddenly freezing. He reported slowly and with many pauses. Then he produced the reading list from his pocket and handed it to his father.
    “Quite an impressive list!” said the district captain. “Please give me a plot summary of
Zriny
.”
    Carl Joseph outlined the drama act by act. Then he sat down, weary, pale, with a dry tongue.
    He stole a glance at the clock, it was only ten–thirty. The examination would drag on for another hour and a half. It mightoccur to the old man to test him in ancient history or German mythology. The father walked through the room, smoking, his left hand behind his back. The cuff rattled on his right hand. The sunny stripes kept growing stronger and stronger on the carpet; they kept edging closer and closer to the window. The sun must be high by now. The church bells started clanging; they tolled all the way into the room as if swinging just beyond the thick