My brother is a reader of the boulevard press. My brother is a messenger in the offices of a certain commercial company. My brother sees—my brothers see—the eagle circling in the air, menacingly wielding the heraldic sword in its claws. The keen sword glints in its sharp talons like a thunderbolt from heaven, then abruptly plunges from on high to pierce the distant heart of my mother, our old mother who works on the land, her back bent as she struggles to wrest potatoes from the earth with her hoe—the last of this year’s crops.
My brother is a simple man. My brothers are simple folk—barbers, cobblers, railway workers, tram conductors, foundrymen in vast iron foundries, clerks, waiters, peasants. Peasants.
My sister is a simple woman. They are all like her—simple and loquacious. Market-stall sellers, washerwomen, milliners, seamstresses, “maids of all work”, nannies of children better situated than mine.
They have seen, they have heard, they have read their local papers, they have seen coloured picture postcards. I may have seen, heard and read myself.
Everyone stood up. The old rococo armchairs heaved a sigh of relief, suddenly free of the burden of venerable bodies. Below, outside the gateway, the crash of the palace guard’s hobnailed boots rang out. Traditionally, soldiers of the 99th Moravian Infantry Regiment had the privilege of guarding these sacred places.
“Gewehr heraaaaaus!” yelled the sentry, like a locomotive whistle administering the last rites to victims of a disaster. The guard presented arms.
A tall, bald-headed, distinguished-looking man, smiling frostily beneath a thin black moustache, cleared his throat. Today it was he who was to fulfil the most important role. Already as a child he had been fond of history. Very. Once more he glanced provocatively in the direction of the ministers poised stiffly in anticipation. Their faces, which now took on a ceremonial expression, though they were customarily sour and morose, bore witness to a severe hardening of the arteries. The worn-out vessels were now having difficulty pumping these gentlemen’s true-blue blood to their hearts. It was common knowledge whom these hearts were beating for. History itself would testify to whom they had promised to give the “last drop” of their blood. Especially as nobody had asked it of them. Meanwhile, the blood was battling against its own degeneration.
The agreeable gentleman’s gaze next came to rest on Maria Theresa’s silver wig; from the enormous portrait, she was sizing up the bald heads and beards gathered around the table with her large, unashamedly masculine eyes. Above the wig, over the gilt frame, the large stones set in the crown of St Stephen surmounted by its leaning cross glowed with fiery reds, greens and purples. The crown blazed in the glow of the setting sun; it shed multi-coloured tears, but the Empress’s eyes glowed even more intensely. Her arteries had never hardened.
A carriage rumbled up to the gateway. A crash of rifle butts on the command to order arms. Down below a dry cough.
The magnificent double doors were flung open. Two svelte guards officers had assumed their positions either side of the entrance, as motionless as two statues in the foyer of the court theatre. A secret ritual suddenly enclosed the two living bodies in deep silence, as though in chilly niches of marble. The ringing of the spurs, sounding like broken glass, was muffled in that silence.
Ceremonial expressions rapidly came over the gentlemen’s faces. The short, stocky Chief of the General Staff knitted his bushy eyebrows. He inclined his greying, close-cropped head slightly to one side towards his left breast, where the most illustrious crosses and stars were soon to blossom. The bald, elegant gentleman, the Foreign Minister, shifted impatiently from foot to foot. The patent-leather shoes that he had to wear on official occasions had given him bunions. One had to create a good impression at the embassy! He was the only one in this company to wear a fragrance. Very discreetly, mind you. He was accustomed to importing his fragrances directly from Paris. He didn’t trust the local products.
All of a sudden, two old men in general’s uniform, with sashes the colour of scrambled eggs draped across their chests, escorted in a third old man in a bright blue tunic. He was stooping, leaning on a silver-handled cane. All three of them had grey sideburns and they were as alike as peas in a pod. The life they had shared over many years—the shared boredom and the shared pleasures—had conferred on them the same appearance. If it were not for the Golden Fleece beneath the third button on the breast of the stooping figure, a stranger in this house would be unable to tell which of the three old men was by the grace of God Emperor of Austria, Apostolic King of Hungary, King of Bohemia, King of Dalmatia, Croatia and Slavonia, King of Galicia and Lodomeria, King of Illyria, Archduke of Upper and Lower Austria, Grand Duke of Transylvania, Duke of Lorraine, Carinthia, Carniola, Bukovina and Upper and Lower Silesia, Prince-Count of Habsburg and Tyrol, Margrave of Moravia, King of Jerusalem, etc., etc., and which were the two aides-de-camp, Count Paar and Baron Bolfras.
The ministers and the generals bowed their heads. Just one of them, a third replica of His Majesty with sideburns, stood erect. He had the right to do so. On his breast—considerably younger than the Emperor’s, it’s true—he also wore a Golden Fleece. He was, after all, the grandson of the victor of Aspern, Archduke Karl.
The armchair the Emperor sat down on was covered in red plush and it stood close to Maria Theresa’s portrait. For a moment, the Empress’s eyes seemed to be searching, over the top of Franz Joseph’s head, for the bushy eyebrows of little Baron Conrad, Chief of the General Staff, in order to remind him that the highest decoration an officer of the Imperial and Royal Army could be awarded is, was, and always would be her own Order, the Order of Maria Theresa. Conrad knew how one gained it. He knew Heinrich von Kleist’s Prince of Homburg virtually off by heart.
Just then, dusk began to sprinkle fluff on the old portraits, exaggerating their outlines. The portraits grew and grew and grew, eventually merging into a continuous grey mass along with the wallpaper and the wood panelling of the elegant room. Prince Eugene of Savoy, with a final glint of his sleek, mirror-like black armour, disappeared into the gloom, where only a moment earlier his golden sceptre and the signet ring on his finger had clearly stood out. Maria Theresa’s crinoline billowed like a gigantic, bulbous cushion filling with water. One might have expected that at any moment the old matriarch of the Habsburgs would emerge from her gilt frame, powerfully elbowing aside these old sclerotics, and casually sit down next to the wilting offspring of her exuberant lifeblood. She would embrace the old man in her plump arms, injecting vigour into his pale, withered being, and burst into lusty peals of laughter.
But the lights in the crown of St Stephen are going out one by one; the fiery glints in her eyes grow dim.
A valet enters. He turns on the electric lights in the crystal chandeliers. Not all of them, however, because His Imperial Majesty cannot bear bright lights. With a trembling hand, he dons his spectacles. After a short while, he removes them again and spends a long time cleaning them with a handkerchief. At this point the bald Count Berchtold, the Foreign Minister, loses his patience. He takes some documents from his briefcase, casting his gaze sternly, yet respectfully, in the Emperor’s direction. His Parisian fragrances not unpleasantly tickle the nostrils of his immediate neighbour, His Excellency von Krobatin, the Minister for War. This aroma at dusk arouses in him memories of his youth. Those wonderful Hungarian girls really know how to kiss!