FIRST Yes, but he’s got a hernia, so I hope they let him go again soon. He’s aiming for higher things, as you know, Ben Tiber at the Apollo Theatre wants to take him on as a literary adviser. He has a hernia.
SECOND My youngest has talent. I have hopes, too — But I’m in a bit of a state right now, I have an audience with Leopold Salvator tomorrow, if I pull it off — I’ll buy my wife a fur coat.
(A beggar woman with a wooden leg and one of her arms a stump stops in front of them.)
BOTH (waving their walking sticks at a passing taxi) Hey—!
(Change of scene.)
Scene 8
Enter Old Man Biach, deep in thought about the latest editorials.
OLD MAN BIACH Cleopatra’s nose was one of her most beautiful features. Sybil, the Greek prophetess, was a worker’s daughter. (Looking around cautiously) Schiller’s Tell says, every man is intent on his own business — and mine is murder. (After a pause, with sudden resolve and a vehement gesture) Today’s top priority: the commercial traveller must put out feelers and sound out the market. (With satisfaction) Ivangorod already in its death throes. (With malicious glee, barely concealed) Poincaré shaken and Lloyd George humiliated. (Forcefully) English and Germans scheduled to meet in Stockholm. (Exit.)
(Change of scene.)
Scene 9
War Archive.
A captain. Men of letters.
CAPTAIN You there, I want you to draft the military commendation applications, as the theatre critic of the Fremdenblatt that shouldn’t be too hard for you. — Right, and you, your feature on that French sculptress, Auguste what’s-her-name, sounds a bit like Rodaun, very neat, with your turn of phrase you’ll have no difficulty doing a preface for what will be our definitive treatise Under the Habsburg Banner, but it’s got to have real oomph, remember, something that speaks straight to the heart, and naturally you mustn’t forget to mention Her Most Serene Imperial Highness, the Archduchess Maria Josefa! — And you, Müller, Robert, what are you up to, nothing escapes my notice, y’know, that article of yours about Roosevelt, very colourful, a bit too flattering, see to it you let me have that essay “What do we expect from our Crown Prince?” and don’t keep me waiting! You came on a bit too strong for the Amerigans, but no harm done. — And you, what about the Double-headed Eagle, still not finished? Time to freshen up the steely pinions of our beloved Habsburg eagle! — But what’s the matter with you, my dear Wildgans? Since you got back from headquarters, you’ve just been lazing around! You’ve picked up their habits out there! But let me tell you something. His Most Serene Imperial Highness, Archduke Friedrich, may be enchanted by your war poems, that may be enough for you but it’s not enough for me, not by a long chalk! So see to it that your hymn of consecration for the allied armies lands on my desk pronto, otherwise you’re on a charge! — Well, Werfel, what about that appeal for Gorizia? Not too much bombast, d’you hear. Moderation in all things! Too much schmaltz, you’re not dancing a waltz. — You there, of course! You may be an Expressionist or whatever, and expect an extra portion of everything. But you can forget about that, the one thing I want from you is the sketch I commissioned, “To the Last Breath of Man and Horse”, so fire away, jumping Jehoshaphat! Your “Breakthrough at Gorlice” turned out quite well. — (To an orderly who has just entered) What is it now? Ah yes, right. (He takes the photographs handed to him.) Very graphic! These are the photographs of Battisti’s execution. Ah, look, our hangman Lang, amazingly lifelike! So, there it is for you lot to insert! Add a description and file it with the others, the photos of executed Czech legionnaires and Ukrainians and so on. — Now here’s something — how would you categorize it? The splendid poem on the feast thrown by His Most Serene Imperial Highness, Archduke Max, at Monte Faë on the Piave, a juicy morsel for our poets, listen:
On the Faë the commandant,
His Highness, ever the gallant,
Smiles and greets the happy crowd,
The while his table does them proud
With food and drink — how much? — no matter,
As every man surveys his platter.
But oh dear, things soon start to go wrong. There’s the funny bit as they keep guzzling till one of them of course has had enough—
He loosens his tie, the merry carouser’s
No option but to unbutton his trousers.
Well, finally, of course, he’s no option but to throw up. What a laugh! And then what happens?!
He looks at the orderly — fascinating!—
And takes him for a lady-in-waiting—!
He pinches arms, then cheeks — all four—
The amorous swain is after more!
But over the rest let us draw a veil,
For modesty must in the end prevail.
Very good! Next day it’s back to the carousing, of course.
The barrel’s down to the last drop,
But finally, before they stop,
On bits of bread they smear the lees,
And stuff their bellies, full of grease—
Well, it goes without saying, as you can imagine, it’s only natural, the cooks were really cheesed off, but His Imperial Highness thought it was great fun. And when they all get back to base, oh dear, oh dear—
The morning after makes them think
With heads still spinning from the drink.
What a sight! — and, yes, a suitable poem for the War Archive, naturally not only on account of its frontline humour and celebration of His Imperial Highness’s hospitality, but because it’s a rarity! And that’s because it was printed by the frontline press under a constant heavy barrage — Hats off, respect! — and you must admit, its typography is very tasteful. — And you, Corporal Dörmann, let that be an example to you, spur on your Pegasus, you’ve gone quiet since you took on the Serb and Russki shits, and cut and hacked ’em all to bits! What’s up? That was good stuff:
Come French monsieur and English gent,
And take that up your fundament!
That really was Dörmann, the Iron Warrior!
Just wait, you’ll catch it now,
We’ll make you squirm, and how!
And since your big mouth never closes,
You need a fist right where your nose is.
So — go make ’em squirm! Why so melancollic? Well, I feel your pain — of course, you’d rather be out there, active in the field, than in here. It really is a pain.
DÖRMANN
I envy the fallen their glorious role,
But duty denies me that ultimate goal.
CAPTAIN Sturdy fellow, setting a fine example! — Now you, Müller, Hans, no need to cheer you up, eh, you’re hard at it all the time. Are you working overtime? Let’s have a look, “Three Falcons Above Lovcen”! That’s the stuff, I won’t forget to mention you to the major-general.
HANS MÜLLER We have grasped how sweet and seemly it is to do our duty. Like soldiers on parade we hammer out rhythms to drown out empty lives, lived closer to the gaudy show than to the reality beneath.
CAPTAIN Quite, quite. But y’know what would interest me? To hear from your own mouth an authentic account of how you showed what a man you are when war was declared. That wonderful article from “Cassian at War”, the one where you pressed your ear to the ground on the vast Russian plain, well it’s common knowledge you wrote that in Vienna, naturally, and we were all gobsmacked how well you captured it. But when the war broke out — you were in Berlin then, weren’t you, in person? So, naturally enough, that’s where you kissed the Allied soldiers, wasn’t it? — but y’know, some folk say you smooched with them in Vienna too, on the Ring — Kraus and his Fackel, y’know, such types have a wicked tongue. So tell me the truth of the matter, were you in Berlin then, or only in Vienna — naturally that’s something the War Archive should know!