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The ArchducklingsChapter 2 free porn video
I slept in my own bed in the northern wing of Schloss Augarten on Friday night. But I was not at peace. I had visitors. A parade of visitors. But only two were notable: my cousins Johann and Rudolf. And both cousins are dead. I lay in bed, musing. I will begin a journal. But not a diary. I will purchase a book to write in when I go out.
Let me begin with some history.
There are a number of archdukes. ‘Archduke’ denotes a rank within the former Holy Roman Empire; it was below that of Emperor and King and above that of a Grand Duke, Duke and Prince. Most of my (male) cousins or siblings are archdukes. Like my father. As it only existed within the Habsburg domains, Rudolf said it was a meaningless title. “Not archdukes, archducklings!” he said.
Johann was the eldest in my generation. I never knew him very well. He was a dozen years older than I, born in Florence in 1852, just in time for his father, Leopold II, to be thrown out in a bloodless coup. That Leopold was the grandson of the Leopold who was Franz Joseph’s grandfather, too. And my father’s. And lots of others: Leopold II of the Holy Roman Empire sired 13! His duty as a son of the Church.
It’s complex. Families are.
I rang for Josef.
He came with a cup of coffee in hand.
“Guten Morgen, Durchlaucht!” – your highness
“Danke.” I sat up. “Can we dispense with that stupidity?”
“Of course, sir.”
“Better. How is it outside?”
“Quite bright. A pleasant autumn day.”
“Can you select something appropriate? I intend to get to the Central in the mid-afternoon.”
“No uniform, then?”
“Not unless I want to be thoroughly ridiculed by Altenberg or Salten or Schnitzler or whoever is there.”
I ended up strolling in a cape but wearing an officer’s kepi, carrying a walking stick. It was, indeed, lovely and I crossed the Augarten to Upper Augarten Strasse and over to the bridge on the Lower Augarten Strasse. The water in the Danube Canal was filthy – not exactly Strauss’s “An der schönen, blauen Donau“ -- but Maria-Theresien Strasse was still in bloom and I walked a bit on the north side, but crossed over to the west side of the site of the monument. Or, better, where the Deutschmeister monument may someday find a home. But when I got to Schottenring, I crossed to the boulevard so I’d get a good view of the Otto-Wagner Haus. Lovely.
Walking past the Stock Exchange, I thought about my route and decided on Herrengasse, there would be a stationers there. I found myself going past the Schottenstift – monastery. Strange. The monks had been Irish, not from Scotland. [The Schottenstift, formally called Benediktinerabtei unserer Lieben Frau zu den Schotten, was founded in 1155 when Henry II of Austria brought Irish monks to Vienna. The monks didn’t come directly from Ireland, but from the Scots Monastery in Regensburg, Germany.]
It looked as though there were tables in the garden, so I entered. An aproned waiter intercepted me.
“May I help you, sir?”
“It’s a bit early, but perhaps a glass of wine?”
“Certainly, sir. Would you like to sit here? Or over there?”
“This will do. What is available?”
“May I suggest a Gruener Veltliner? Or a yellow Muskateller? Or a Riesling?”
“Muscatel is too sweet for me. The Veltliner is new?” He nodded. “Ein achtl Veltliner, bitte.” An eighth-liter.
“Sofort!”
I drank my wine, cool and tart. I raised my hand. “Mein Herr?”
“Noch ein Achtl, bitte.”
He brought it. I drank, still thinking of my cousins. It was time to get on to the Central. “Zahlen, bitte.”
“Seven Heller, sir.”
I put down a coin. “Ten. And thank you.”
“My pleasure, sir.”
Past the Palais Kinsky, past the Harrach, and here was the Central. Inside, the smell of beer, wine, tobacco, and people. A Viennese coffee house is more than a cafe. It’s like a living room where you meet friends and acquaintances. Looking towards the rear, I could see Altenberg holding forth with three others at his regular table. I made my way there.
“Aha! The shithead’s back!” Altenberg exclaimed.
“Undeserving,” I responded. “I’d awaited something wittier.”
“I’m not drunk enough, yet. I’ve been listening to Salten’s sad story.”
“Greetings, Felix. I’ve seen several items by you recently. What’s so sad?”
“Hello, mein Herr. I’ve written a novel. But the publishers don’t want it.”
I sat down. “A pair of sausages and a small beer,” I said to the hovering waiter.
“And more wine!” Altenberg added.
“Do they offer any reasons?”
“The usual nonsense,” Schnitzler added.
“Greetings, Arthur.”
“Your highness.”
“First, I was told there would be no interest. Then I was told it was obscene.”
“And... ?”
“Well, I suppose it’s obscene. But it’s not salacious. It’s not really titillating.”
“What is it?”
He sighed. “It’s the autobiography of a Viennese whore.”
“Hmm. I’ve had contact with that type.” There was general laughter.
“Actually, I tried to make it realistic.”
“Altenberg. Have you read it?”
“Yes. It is true realism. Like Balzac or Stifter.”
“Not Zola or that Belgian Huysmans?”
“No, sir. Salten adheres to Oscar Wilde.”
“Eh?”
“Wilde wrote: ‘The ancient historians gave us delightful fiction in the form of fact; the modern novelist presents us with dull facts under the guise of fiction.’”
“But you don’t mean to say that you seriously believe that Life imitates Art, that Life in fact is the mirror, and Art the reality?” asked Schnitzler.
“Just so.”
My sausages arrived. “And where’s the horseradish, idiot?”
“Sorry, your highness.”
I swallowed my beer while the scribblers quibbled. I thought as I ate. “So, Salten. What would a Privatdruck cost?”
“Sorry?”
“Could one perhaps ... encourage ... a printer?”
“I don’t know. Altenberg?”
“How long? How many copies?”
“About 300 pages. Not much more. 500 copies? Maybe 1000?”
“Between 300 and 500 Kronen.”
“Will you be here on Monday?”
“Around this time.”
“I need to think.” I put two gold pieces on the table and called out “Ober!”
“Your highness?”
“This should cover the table’s account.”
“Yes, your highness.”
“And get me a Fiaker.”
“Immediately, your highness!”
“Till Monday, gentlemen.”
I was tired. The walk, the visit to Schottenhof and then the Central had consumed my energy. After I was driven back to the Augarten, I allowed Josef to assist me and laid down. I dozed, thinking of Salten’s book. Johann Salvator came to my mind. He was the artistic one.
The Italian Habsburg family had moved to Vienna before I was born. First the Tuscans fled to Bologna, where they were in Papal territory. After the disastrous battle of Solferino at the end of the Second Austro-Sardinian War (July 1859), Onkel Leopold abdicated in favor of his oldest son, Ferdinand IV, who was so unpopular that the provisional government proclaimed the deposition of the House of Habsburg a few weeks later. And so they came here.
Johann was eight then. Rudolf was around two.
In 1860 my father, Karl Ludwig, was between wives. He had wed Margreta of Saxony when she was but 16. She died of typhoid two years later, in 1858. My mother Maria Annunciata of Bourbon-Two Sicilies became his second wife in 1862. My brother Franz Ferdinand was dutifully born 14 months later. And I, two years later still. My brother Ferdinand Karl arrived just after Christmas in 1868 (tardy as usual) and my sister Margrete Sophie in May 1870. My mother died a year later, having served her breeding purposes, and in July 1873, when I was eight, Karl Ludwig acquired my step-mother, Infanta Maria Theresa, who dutifully pumped out my two half-sisters well before my father succumbed to typhoid in 1896.
It’s as Perrault wrote in The Fairies – “The widower of a gentle and sweet-tempered woman, married a haughty and unpleasant one.”
I said it was complex.
Johann Salvator had been meant for the army. He was sent to a military school in the east of the Empire and did brilliantly. At 27, he was named ‘Field Marshal Lieutenant’. But he hated it. His father had given him Schloss Orth in 1876. It’s near Gmunden, on the north end of Traunsee. But he spent his time here in the capital. In the wine gardens and the theaters. He wasn’t interested in the Empire or the monarchy. I was only a teenager, but recall his infatuation with the arts, especially the theaters: the lights, the limbs, the smells of perspiration and powder. Milli caught his eye.
She was a pretty Viennese girl who’d become a dancer, first at the Kaerntnertor and then at the Court Opera. And it was for Ludmilla (“Milli”) Stubel, as ballerina that in 1883 Archduke Johann Salvator of Austria wrote and designed a ballet, “Die Assassinen“ – The Assassins – under the pseudonym Johann Traugott. The ballet was performed in Vienna five times between November 12 and December 12, 1884. At the premiere Milli appeared on stage illuminated from head to foot by Edison’s new light bulbs. I was still a Kadett and was overwhelmed.
Oh, yes. My father was the younger brother of Franz Joseph. So Rudolf was my first cousin. I keep writing that it’s very complicated. As they say, Bella gerant alii, tu felix Austria, nube! – Others make war, you, happy Austria, marry! But we don’t marry happily. So, after Rudolf’s death, my father became heir-presumptive. When he died, my older brother Franz Ferdinand became heir-presumptive. But when he married Sophie, he had to renounce his claim. So, that makes me heir-apparent. The emperor-in-waiting. But I’m far too disreputable. And now I know that I won’t live long enough. So my Karl will someday be Emperor. Of what?
Johann Orth (his new name) and Milli were happy, but they were barred from marrying within the Empire. So they eloped. To Paris and thence to London. And there, in 1889, they were married. Johann had loved sailing on the Traunsee. But outside of the Polar Expedition, Franz Joseph’s navy just cruised the Adriatic and the Mediterranean. In some way, the new couple learned of a freighter, the Saint Margaret, for sale in Hamburg.
You might wonder which St. Margaret. There are many to pick among. But my guess is Queen Margaret of Scotland, who was originally English. Somehow, Johann had qualified for a master’s certificate. And the newly-wed and still-infatuated Milli was full of confidence. So they sailed to France and took train to Hamburg.
A knock roused me. “Enter!”
It was Josef. “Will you want any dinner, sir?”
“Perhaps some trifles. Nothing heavy. And coffee.”
“I’ll see what cook has available.”
“Excellent!”
I snacked, ate a fruit tart and drank half a bottle of tokay. Then coffee. I was in bed quite early.
As expected, Johann Orth visited my dreams, wearing a naval jacket.
The Saint Margaret acquired a full cargo, most of it bound for Montevideo, some for Buenos Aires across the Plata. It was over 50 meters long and had a master, a small deck crew, a dozen men in the engine room, and a steward and a cook. Johann Orth was “owner” and imagined himself a sea captain. They sailed down the Elbe into the North Sea, through the English Channel and across the Bay of Biscay. Milli was happy cruising and wanted to make port to “buy things” (she called it an Einkaufspause). The sailing master grumbled, but they docked for a day or so at Porto, at the mouth of the Douro.
Two stokers didn’t return to ship. The master just shrugged. The Saint Margaret then made for Ponta Delgada in the Azores and then south and a bit west to Recife in Brazil. There were a few rainstorms, but the weather was generally good. The social relations between Johann and “his” mariners were not as good. The sailing master wanted to deliver the cargo. Johann wanted to play Captain. Milli wanted to be mistress of a yacht. It was the beginning of July. Recife greeted them with pouring rain. The streets were mud. They steamed off to Rio, anchoring in Botafogo Bay, As they steamed south, the weather had improved. Milli was delighted. She was thrilled by Rio, the colors and the sounds. It only lacked an opera house.
The master wanted to get on. The cargo was due in Montevideo. Johann told him not to worry. He was the owner. The master was persistent.
It was Josef. Waking me with fresh coffee. “Es ist Sonntag, mein Herr. Her Majesty was wondering whether you would attend Mass.”
“My wife or my mother?”
“Your Grace’s wife, sir. Maria Josepha, sir. She said it was Nicholas of Tolentino.”
“Tell her not this week, Josef. I don’t venerate holy souls.”
“Yes, sir. And would you like breakfast?”
“Just rolls and coffee.”
“With butter and apricot preserves?”
“Of course.”
I walked in the Augarten for a while, thinking of my dream. Was Johann telling me something? Was I fabricating? Had I been stimulated by those scribblers at the Central? The autobiography of a Viennese whore! Well, I’d known several of those. And Schnitzler had written that cycle. What was it? Reigen. Children’s dance. Big to-do. Obscenity! Offensive to everyone. I read it years ago. Made good sense. By choosing characters across all levels of society, Schnitzler offered social commentary on how sex transcends class boundaries. Johann and Milli. My brother Franz Ferdinand and his Sophie. Rudolf and anyone.
That was a Privatdruck. Perhaps Schnitzler will be at the Central tomorrow. I think I will give Salten the gold for his book. I’d missed the Wedekind play when I was in Egypt. Sex and murder.
Reentering the palace, I asked Josef whether the Archduchess had returned from her rites.
“Yes, sir.”
“Is Max here?”
“Your highness’ younger son is not in school.”
“Please inform the Archduchess that I desire to dine en famille today.”
“Immediately, sir. As customary, at 13:00?”
“Certainly.” I returned to my apartments.
A bit after noon, Josef had appeared and suggested that I might wish to wear the white general’s tunic and bright blue trousers, but without sash or decorations. As customary, I let him have his way.
Max was a sober child. Quite unlike me and more serious than his elder brother, Otto. Quite the opposite to Franz Ferdinand, who had been pompous when we were children. I was Rudolph’s younger brother, though I was his cousin. I never knew what sort of relationship our fathers had. My grandmother made certain that our father, Karl Ludwig, was a devout prig. So Franz Ferdinand and I descended to extremes.
Dinner was tedious. Max, in cadet regalia, was stiffly quiet, responding to questions, volunteering nothing. His mother, Maria Josepha, has never held a conversation that was not confined to the weather and court gossip. Today it concerned the late summer portending a pleasant autumn.
Soup. Fowl. Roast. Fruit. Two wines, neither outstanding.
“Father, mother. May I be excused? I have readings to complete.”
“Of course, dear.” I waved my hand.
“Your mother will be here for tea, Otto. Will you join us?”
“If you wish. But she is not my mother!”
“You will restrain yourself, please.”
“After she had me installed in a nut-house?”
“A spa ... a sanatorium, please.”
“Very well. 16 o’clock?” I tossed my napkin onto the table, knowing she liked them neatly refolded. “You look well.”
“Thank you, Otto.” She didn’t enquire as to my health.
I doffed my tunic and lay down for a nap.
Johann returned. He was arguing with the master of the Saint Margaret about delaying delivery, booking the next cargo and getting the ship underway. Milli was still shopping. They would sail for Montevideo in three days.
Josef entered quietly, but criticized my trousers, insisting that I change for tea. I switched from the white to the sober dark gray of the hussars, and a jacket rather than a tunic. “Handsome Otto” had been my cognomen. No longer.
Tea was sober, formal, almost grim.
My stepmother is but a decade older than I am; my wife, two years younger. My mother was a dozen years older still. Pious, hypocritical, over-fed breeders. I made my wife’s life miserable, I know. But she had that actor, Tressler. My step-mother had her daughters and her Breviary. The daughters were her pride: Maria Annunziata took vows and was now Abbess in Bohemia; Elizabeth married the Prince of Liechtenstein.
The coffee was weak. The cakes too sweet. I insulted no one. Surely the ladies were disappointed.
I re-read Schnitzler’s Leutnant Gustl again. It is quite amazing in its brevity. He saw the Austrian crisis at the turn of the century and the impending collapse of the Imperial dream. Bored at the opera, Gustl muses about which women are flirting with him; the fact that there are too many Jews in the army, which is the reason for “all this anti-Semitism”; and an upcoming duel with a doctor who made an unflattering remark about the military. After the concert, impatient in the coat check queue, Gustl gets into a quarrel with a baker who threatens to break Gustl’s sword in two. Convinced he’s been dishonored, Gustl decides he must commit suicide and spends the night walking the city, weighing killing himself. But when he arrives at his favorite cafe for a final breakfast, he becomes elated on learning that he can go on living because the baker died of a stroke just after their encounter.
Simple. Direct. Insightful. It was in the 1901 Christmas supplement. I missed his play last May, “Pandora’s Box.” But I read about the scandal. But wait that wasn’t Schnitzler! That was Wedekind. But Kraus was involved in the production. And I’m sleepy.
Johann was at it with his master again ... still? But the Saint Margaret put to sea, chugging south and west along the Brazilian coast, past Sao Paulo, past Porto Alegre, the lookout crying loudly as he sighted El Faro del Cabo Santa Maria a week later, where the vessel heeled as it steered westward against the current of the Rio de la Plata. “We will dock tomorrow, sir,” the master told Johann.
“Excellent. And then we will rid ourselves of the cargo?”
“I hope so, sir. We are late.”
“They will take what we have.”
“They will offer a lower price, as we are tardy.”
“We will see.”
Herr Johann Orth was as arrogant as Archduke Johann Salvator had been.
After breakfast, I walked in the park. On return, I asked Josef about cash.
“There is several thousand in paper money, but only a few hundred in gold.”
“I would like to have 600 in paper and 75 in gold this afternoon.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I encountered a fine barber when I was in Purkersdorf.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Be good enough to arrange for him to visit me here. I would like my hair trimmed.”
“Of course, sir. Do you know his name?”
“Albin. But how many can they have, dolt?”
“I regret I do not know, sir.”
“I will be going to the Central later. Is our coach available?”
“The Archduchess has taken your son to see the new conservatory in the Hofgarten.“
“I envy him. And the FIAT? [Fabbrica Italiana di Automobili Torino]”
“Not in use for several months. There is a tin of petroleum. May I drive you, sir?”
“Of course. But you must take care. And will you find a place for wine?”
“Beer, sir.”
“Let us leave here after fifteen o’clock.”
“Very good, sir. And I won’t forget the pocket money. But if I check the motor-wagon, I may not have the time to telephone about the hairdresser.”
“That can wait till tomorrow.”
“Will you want to eat dinner?”
“No. Only a nibble. But perhaps we could drive out to Grinzing around dusk. I wouldn’t mind fried chicken and wine as autumn begins.”
“We will have to take care with the motor.”
“Don’t be so nervous, Josef.”
“No, sir.”
I paused at the entry to the Central to read the theatre placard. Fidelio at the Hof-Oper on the 26th. The brilliant Jew Mahler conducting. No matter. Schnitzler was a Jew. So were Altenberg and Salten. Even Kraus, though he had left Young Vienna before they began meeting at the Central. Mahler wrote fine music, but his direction of operas was outstanding. Mozart. Wagner. I made a mental note to attend the Beethoven.
“No sword?” was my greeting from Beer-Hofmann.
“I’m not in uniform. But my congratulations on your prize.”
“Danke. But it’s only the Volksschillerpreis.”
“But an award, nonetheless.
“True.”
“Hello, Altenberg, Schnitzler. Salten not here?”
“Soon. He was so excited, he most likely forgot.”
“I see the opera is beginning its new season.”
“A bourgeois entertainment! I am amazed that you trouble yourself with it.”
“I am a music-lover. The opera, the Musikverein ... even the Volksoper and the Theater an der Wien.”
“Have you met Hofmannsthal?” Schnitzler asked.
“No. A pleasure. I saw your Tor und Tod, and found it interesting.”
“You are most kind, your highness.”
“Please! This is a coffeehouse!”
“And the only thing high about him is the top of his pate!” added Altenberg.
“The Hofburgtheater is premiering my new play next month. On the twelfth,” said Schnitzler.
“What is it?”
“Zwischenspiel – Intermezzo.”
At that point, Salten appeared. “Am I tardy?”
“I have not yet heard the overture. I was talking to Schnitzler and Hofmannsthal.”
“So.” He sat down. “A large brown one,” he told the waiter.
I sipped my coffee. “Have you done your research?”
Aeryn
- 23.04.2020
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