the-snug

The Fighting Agnostic

Fri, 30 Jul 2010 18:05:12 +0100

I was mildly critical of Ron Rosenbaum (above) below, re: his spurious Pale Fire controversy. But I'm entirely on his side on the topic of agnosticism vs. atheism. As he says in this week's Slate, "Let's get one thing straight: Agnosticism is not some kind of weak-tea atheism. Agnosticism is not atheism or theism. It is radical skepticism, doubt in the possibility of certainty, opposition to the unwarranted certainties that atheism and theism offer."

Well said, sir. Atheism is as absurdly childish and irrational as any other full-fledged religious belief that reposes on the arrogant and credulous "faith" of its proponent.

Berlin 1925

Thu, 29 Jul 2010 15:31:55 +0100

And 15 years before the horror came roaring out of Berlin that resulted in the crushing of Paris (below), a young Russian emigre living there on the proceeds of tennis lessons and translations wrote, "And do you know with what a marvelous clatter the brightly lit train, all its windows laughing, sweeps across the bridge above the street! Probably it goes no farther than the suburbs, but in that instant the darkness beneath the black span of the bridge is filled with such mighty metallic music that I cannot help imagining the sunny lands toward which I shall depart as soon as I have procured those extra hundred marks for which I long so blandly, so light-heartedly."

Vladimir Nabokov, A Letter That Never Reached Russia (1925)

Paris 1940

Thu, 29 Jul 2010 14:46:30 +0100

Seventy years ago: The dust has settled, the armistice is signed, the nation lies prostrate. Usually you go for a stroll down the Rue de Rivoli around this time of day, to clear your head, browse the shopwindows, sit for awhile in the Tuileries. But today this is the sight that greets you: not a relaxing one. And for four more years this is Paris, second city of the Third Reich.

VN: In The Spotlight Again

Tue, 27 Jul 2010 14:06:53 +0100

Ron Rosenbaum, at his best an intelligent and entertaining culture sleuth (I found his Explaining Hitler fascinating, although it came nowhere near to an explanation), is at it again. Hard on the heels of the controversy over Vladimir Nabokov's posthumous novel The Original of Laura--in the course of which RR first publicly urged Dmitri, VN's son, to burn the manuscript, then recanted and exhorted him Publish! Publish! (he published)--we have what looks to me like a nostalgic attempt on RR's part to relive those glory days with an unnecessary inquiry into the essence of VN's great Pale Fire. "[A]s I read and reread the novel," he says, "and sometimes just the poem, it began to dawn on me. Maybe the poem wasn't meant as a pastiche, a parody...Once it dawned on me that the poem might not be a carefully diminished version of Nabokov's talents, but Nabokov writing at the peak of his powers in a unique throwback form (the kind of heroic couplets Alexander Pope used in the 18th century), I began to write essays that advanced this revisionist view of the poem. It was actually one of these that came to the attention of Dmitri Nabokov who seemed to indicate this was his understanding as well: That his father intended the poem to be taken seriously." (Italics mine.) Ding dong. Of course he intended it to be taken seriously because it was, and is, a supreme example of his art, the parodic art. To paraphrase myself: Like Lolita and The Gift, like all his best work, Pale Fire is parody. “[Nabokov] used parody as a springboard for leaping into the highest region of serious emotion,” Brian Boyd, VN's biographer, has remarked. Precisely; this is the case with Pale Fire. Nabokov himself, rejecting the label “satirist,” said, “Satire is a lesson, parody is a game.” And he was nothing if not a player of games.

Brothers in Neglect

Sun, 25 Jul 2010 18:46:20 +0100

From the Entertainment Weekly obit for Harvey Pekar, by Ken Tucker: "Pekar remained an ardent champion of the lowly comic book, as well as a highly original reader of such neglected authors ranging from the forgotten humorist George Ade to the contemporary novelist Roger Boylan."

Nice of Ken not to repeat "lowly." That's George Ade in the photo. He ain't neglected. He's my brother.

The Gravitas of De Gaulle

Fri, 23 Jul 2010 19:49:22 +0100

Charles de Gaulle with his daughter Anne, who had Down syndrome. Normally undemonstrative, the General was open and affectionate with the little girl. When she died, aged 20, he said "Maintenant elle est comme les autres" ("Now she's like the others"). Nothing becomes a man of dignity so much as a well-tempered display of emotion. There was something Roman about De Gaulle.

Verlaine

Thu, 22 Jul 2010 16:09:25 +0100

A poignant photo of Paul Verlaine sitting alone in a cafe, post-Mathilde, post-Rimbaud, hastening his descent into drug addiction and alcoholism with a bottle of (what else?) absinthe. The story of the original poète maudit has inspired more self-destructive artistic martyrdoms than any other, but he must have been a sad, even pathetic, man, tormented by everything. And, let's not forget, he was a great poet.

"Like city's rain, my heart . . ."

Like city's rain, my heart
Rains teardrops too. What now,
This languorous ache, this smart
That pierces, wounds my heart?
Gentle, the sound of rain
Pattering roof and ground!
Ah, for the heart in pain,
Sweet is the sound of rain!
Tears rain-but who knows why?-
And fill my heartsick heart.
No faithless lover's lie? . . .
It mourns, and who knows why?
And nothing pains me so--
With neither love nor hate--
A simply not to know
Why my heart suffers so.

Linz 1907

Wed, 21 Jul 2010 19:08:07 +0100

From The Adorations (cont'd):

The thought passed through Stefanie’s mind, otherwise aswim with pro-Adolf (or at least pro-artist) feelings (or at the very least responding favorably to the mating dance of the eager male), that young Herr Hitler could on occasion be quite overbearing, when the mood took him, as the mood seemed to take him now—well, perhaps overbearing wasn’t quite the right word: importunate? Yes, but with such enthusiasm that he was hard to resist. The very opposite of monotonous, anyway. With his gestures he parried, feinted, and thrust; his face and hands were constantly on the go; he stared, lip-licked, and finger-fiddled. He demanded one’s attention, which almost guaranteed that he wouldn’t get Stefanie’s. Such self-confidence, she thought, would be apt, no doubt, in the presence of worshippers, but she worshipped him not, and couldn’t imagine anyone else doing so...he was an artist, after all! No one took the political ravings of artists seriously. Such palaver was for late nights in the smoky confines of a small garret eave-secreted in some great city’s Bohemian quarter (she dreamed, for a second, of herself in just such a garret: Life, Love, and Art, the blessed triumvirate of youth’s empire!). No, no one would ever beg him to repeat himself. No one would dream of designing society along his lines. No one would restructure his or her life according to the ravings of Adolf the Artist! She felt pity (constant companion of her future life), pity for the intensity and seriousness and probable future failure of a bright but muddled young man. Only eighteen she might be, but she’d already seen, in her own family, in her own father and uncles and cousin and various distant relatives, enough shortcomings and fallings-short and half-measures and life-imposed compromises to recognize failure in the making. Poor Adolf. And yet! The intensity was rare.

A shiver passed through her, heralding another of her spells. Migraine, the doctor had said. Nonsense, had been Stefanie’s reply. She rubbed her eyes.

Adolf didn’t notice. He had moved from the specific, his audience of one, to the general, an abstract, celestial audience of Hermanns and Frederick Redbeards and dumb but willing German yeomen. Talking all the while, he was gazing through the window at the sliver of blue Danube and the wooded Pöstlingberg beyond, momentarily indifferent to ambient banalities. He appeared to ignore, for instance, a mild metallic burning odor that caught in Stefanie’s nose right away.

“Uggh.”

The smell seeped faintly into the air, as if a frying pan had been left on the fire in the kitchen; then, suddenly, it was gone. Stefanie took a deep breath. She blinked away the rosettes of eyestrain. Specks of light danced before her eyes, then disappeared. In the distance there was a low screech, as of a chair being dragged across the floor. A warm breeze played over her neck.

“German ideals, of course,” Adolf was saying. “We Germans have never had much luck with the parliamentary style of government. We have our own needs, our own dictates. Why should we try to imitate countries that after all are decaying from within? These liberal and socialistic parties speak constantly of importing the French, or the English, or the American, system...”

Adolf’s ideal form of government, however tedious to Stefanie, seemed to be arousing interest in other quarters, which was hardly surprising, she thought, as Adolf had developed a very audible, indeed hectoring, tone of voice; however, she had not been aware of other customers sitting down nearby, but one or two must have, behind their backs. Anyway, she was definitely having another of those attacks, longer than usual. She wondered if something obvious triggered them: strain, anticipation, excitement? Such attacks in a girl her age were quite absurd and irritating, like an insistently recurring bout of heart palpitations or some other ailment she associated with nervous old people who spent most of their lives taking their pulses and sipping muddy water at thermal spas...a violent throb in her temples was followed by a swiftly-dissipating mist that yielded to prism-like clarity with a hint, too, of prism-like distortion, or refraction, around the edges, like a shimmering gilded frame. On this particular occasion, while Adolf spoke of his ideals, through the dissolving blur and subsequent lens-sharpness Stefanie discerned the hard-edged profile of a stranger sitting in part-shadow at an adjoining table, smoke rising from an invisible pipe or cigar (odorless? perhaps it was a cigarette), his hands cupped in front of him, his legs crossed in somewhat grotesque fashion, as if he were seated sidesaddle on a horse. Was he a cripple? An athlete? Another artist, or agent provocateur? Stefanie idly shifted her full attention from her haranguing companion to this new arrival. Adolf seemed not to notice. The man’s face, apart from its profile—whose aquiline nose, weak chin, and high sloping forehead were as sharp as if they had been etched in glass—was oddly vague and imprecise, like a much-erased drawing. His shoulders, or what Stefanie could see of them, seemed to be shaking, as in silent laughter, although there was no corresponding mirth reflected on his features: perhaps he was ill? His eyes seemed to be closed, or deep in shadow. Stefanie’s attention was drawn again to his legs, which were as imprecise in outline as his face was in feature, as if heavy clouds were blotting out the sun (but they weren’t, because she could see through the window into the cheerful sunlit world beyond), yet in some way those legs were grotesque, incomplete—not that she could see at all clearly under the neighboring table....

“...I firmly believe, and I’m aware that I probably offend you, I know some educated young ladies of liberal conscience would be quite shocked at my words, ja, ja, but I must say it, I do believe in the importance of maintaining national characteristics, that is to say: No foreigners! Now of course—before you say how shocked you are, before you remind me how Goethe would disagree, and so on—when you think about it, this is precisely the Greco-Roman ideal. Have you read Chamberlain? One of the most eminent English authors, I only recently discovered him, and I must say I am finding him very stimulating... but I see you are shocked.”

Stefanie was indeed shocked, but not at Adolf’s theorizing. She had found a precise comparison for the mental image evoked by the spasmodic shifting, or uncrossing (with hoof-like clattering of feet), of her neighbor’s legs: the stables at her Uncle Karl’s farm in the Salzkammergut, specifically (she remembered the acrid mingling of the smells, hay-urine-manure) the momentary loss of balance of a cow being milked. Or a horse stung by a fly. Or—and she squarely faced the final, diabolical image—a goat, startled, stumbling...the image was absurd, then terrifying for a second, then absurd and terrifying; then, as soon as the image began to fade, so did the mysterious stranger at the neighboring table, gathering up him- or itself (what was the appropriate pronoun for an angel, fallen or not?) and heading for the door in the corner (what door? there was no door there), but on his or its way out—moving in an ataxic, jerky, pantomime-horse kind of way—turning to look back, as Stefanie thought, not at her but at Adolf, and in an unaccountably intimate, devouring way, like a lover, or long-lost family member, enormous eyes flaming with a hideous immortality, a misshapen head that seemed to culminate—yes, she could have predicted it (had predicted it)—in an odd, stiff little coiffure that resembled horns...were horns. Of course.

Then, thank God, he, or it, was gone, fading into a small whirlwind of shadow. The smell that lingered was one that had earned its place in folklore.

Stefanie shook her head violently.

“My God! I have seen the devil,” she murmured, head in hands.

“Ah,” said Adolf. “You are ill?” There was a touch of impatience in his voice at this further sign of the unpredictability of this young woman, or women in general; indeed, his mind reluctantly filled with images of horrible illness setting in, unseemly dashing to and fro, a cab commandeered for the hospital, encounters with family members, feeble explanations offered and instantly dismissed, himself made to feel inferior again...

“No, I’m quite all right,” she said. “But I will go home now, I think.”

“But.” He was confused, nonplussed, surprised. “It’s not even two o’clock.”

“And it was this morning we met! Already we’ve spent four hours together. It’s enough, Herr Adolf. It was enjoyable, yes, but it’s enough. My Aunt Marie will be wondering what has become of me. And I need to rest.“

With a firmness of demeanor that impressed Adolf, while simultaneously pushing him to the brink of despair, Stefanie made preparations to leave. Sensing departure, their host Herr Herzl appeared, hovered, allowed a touch of hand-wringing impatience to show at Adolf’s laborious (because reluctant) counting-out of coins that nonetheless ended with a surprisingly large gratuity being tossed disdainfully onto the table (thus restoring the landlord to the state of bluff grovelling that was his trademark).

“Many thanks, esteemed young gentleman. Your servant, Fraulein.”

Adolf retrieved his cane, clapped his artist’s cap on his head, and bowingly gestured for Stefanie to precede him. They went through the door into the burning sunlight of the Hauptplatz.

“I would be most grateful”—oh now he reminded himself how lovely she was, with her hazel eyes, golden hair and honey-brown skin, his longed-for Stefanie, dream-companion of his haunted nighttime hours!—”if you would consent to accompany me again, Fraulein Stefanie, perhaps to the opera performance I mentioned?”

“Ja. Perhaps, Herr Adolf.”

“And now? May I? Escort you, perhaps?”

“I have a visit to make. Thank you, but no.”

“I kiss your hand, dear young lady.”

Adolf Hitler did so, and bowed, relief and disappointment struggling within him: Relief, that he no longer had to play the courtier (not that he did so very well), pay attention, laugh at jokes, agree with the nonsensical opinions of another, flutter about, think of banalities, spend money; and disappointment, of course, at leaving the current object of his desire, who might now be on her way elsewhere for good, outraged or shocked or disappointed or disgusted—yes, he could all too easily imagine the type of smooth-talking middle-class or aristocratic Hungarian and/or Jewish skirt-chaser who might win her heart, a man with a box at the opera, a yacht at Fiume, a house in the Vienna Woods, and a well-rehearsed line of seductive patter; exactly the kind of suave Romeo, in fact, he had disapprovingly taken note of in Vienna. Just the type, he was sure, who would eagerly engage in silken chit-chat about Goethe and with supreme confidence offer his arm on the dance floor; raise a cape-cloaked arm to summon a cab out of nowhere on a rainy night; airily speak French, and Italian, and English, and say “old chap,” and order expensive aperitifs; the kind of devious, disloyal, untrustworthy cosmopolite, in short, who would undermine Adolf’s very notion of nationhood, i.e., civilization itself. Through his confusion he glimpsed, as he often did, salvation, with himself as Wagner reborn, successfully manning the barricades in a great social and cultural revolution, a French Revolution for Germany...and Austria, too...anyway, Stefanie was too young, that was it. Deeply as he desired her, he knew himself to be too mature, too seasoned, too steeped in learning and philosophy, too elevated by the fates and amibiton to waste time on a girl, or girls. Some day one would heed the call and join him in his quest; but she would be more pliable, more understanding, more loyal, than the temperamental, if beautiful, Stefanie. The thought of the future and what it would hold reassured him, as it always did. He gave his cane a flourish and took out his pocket-watch. (Faintly, regret trembled, prompted by the fresh memory of Stefanie’s awe; then it vanished, vanquished.) Two fifteen. That would give him a good three hours or so in the library. He was halfway through Chamberlain, and wanted to finish the book before going home to Leonding. He would tell Mamma he had shared a torte with Stefanie von Rothenberg. She would be impressed.

As for Stefanie, deeply shaken, she tried to explain her experience to the statues and altar and immanent God at the Mariakirche, a dark, chilly place dimly illuminated by red-flickering candles honoring the forgotten dead. But for a priest, the church was empty, yet it was full of the vast echoes of a living silence: footfalls; a creaking beam; a door closing; a scuffling churchmouse...dear God, said Stefanie to God, make me normal again. If what I saw was real, make me blind; if a vision, make me see as others see.

There was, of course, no reply. Then the priest shuffled by.

“Father.”

“Yes, my child?”

“I want to make my confession, Father.”

She confessed, but Father Rupprecht was an old priest who’d been in Linz since the days of Metternich and wanted only an easeful slide into dotage and death, with no sudden intrusions of mysticism and hallucinations to upset his nice parish and tear open his neatly-wrapped package of a remote Christ triumphant and remoter God serene. Grudgingly (he had an appointment with an osteopath, then a game of chess at Meinherr Schmitz the barber’s) he heard Stefanie’s confession, which she watered down accordingly; then, paternally, impatiently, indifferently, he extended the benediction.

“Go in peace, my child.”

In turmoil she went.

July 20

Tue, 20 Jul 2010 20:24:26 +0100

On July 20, 1944, Col. von Stauffenberg et al. failed signally to put AH and Germany out of their misery.

On that date in 1951 I came along. Good for me. Still here. Bit of a miracle, that.

Then, on the same date in 1969, another colonel made news by setting foot on the Moon. As he did so, I was watching him on the TV in the restaurant I was working in, rather than the customer I was serving; upshot: spaghetti alla carbonara all over Mr. Hassam, of Beirut. This was one of the few occasions when I didn't lose my job. A memorable birthday.

Happy birthday, all other 20th-of-Julyers.

Linz 1907 (Cont'd.)

Fri, 16 Jul 2010 15:30:56 +0100

From The Adorations (Continued)

They left the riverbank, crossed the nearby Hofgasse, and made their way to the Hauptplatz, the bustling heart of Linz. It was a little before eleven, and preparations were underway for the great day ahead. Banners stirred feebly in the muggy riverine air. Standing about were groups of soldiers from different regiments, Austrian mostly, with a sprinkling of Serbs and Moravians, and German-speakers from the marches of Bessarabia, and Slovenes from Capo d’Istria, and the already-noted Magyars; most were laughing coarsely and smoking, ogling the women and not-so-gently mocking their escorts. One such escort, a student to judge by his general dress and demeanour (plumed hat, lace shirt, swagger) turned on them and screamed obscenities. Adolf, too, screamed briefly, then fell silent, intimidated by the sight of a regiment of strapping lancers strolling in his general direction.

“You got something you want to discuss?” one of them shouted. “Herr Wandervogel?”

“Careful,” said another. “Maybe that’s a swordstick Herr Doktor Professor Artist is carrying.”

Stefanie was nervous, but elated. There was something of the larger world in it all: the soldiers, the bantering, the undercurrent of male rivalry, the pervasiveness of sex. Almost, she thought, as if they weren’t in Linz at all. Her breath caught in her throat; her heart skipped a beat, as if in fear, or great excitement. She had a familiar swooning sensation of elevation, a passing giddiness, and a mist floated before her eyes, then yielded to an equally abnormal, almost painful, clarity, limning distant things. A moment later she felt calm, lucid, ready for anything.

“There must be scenes like this in Vienna all the time,” she said, as they walked away from the defenders of the Empire.

But Adolf seemed to have no further interest in Vienna. He rankled yet, over Goethe. Thoughts of stark Germanness had taken over. There was a faint throbbing in his temples. He felt thwarted, pent-up, unmanned.

“Let’s go over here,” he said, and abruptly changed course. They were just behind the reviewing stand, which faced a famous old drinking establishment, the Alte Welt. Grandees had fought duels in the Alte Welt; artists had cried over spilt wine in its cavernous cellars. In 1889 a Triestine count had, a la Prince Rudolf, shot himself and his mistress in a discreet room upstairs, and Anton Bruckner’s ghost had been seen draping itself humbly around a beer. Today the Alte Welt was filling up with soldiers and members of the archducal entourage: hussars, grenadiers, dragoons. Adolf, suddenly self-conscious, had no desire to engage in an exchange of witticisms or abuse with men twice his size. He might get beaten up. Also, he was in the (for him) unusual position of having a lady’s feelings, and impressions, to consider. Momentarily, he was at a loss; his hands kneaded the air; he was sweating. His hat was askew, revealing the pink line made by the hatband.

“Shall we?” he began, interrupted (again) by a sudden flurry of activity. Soldiers stopped lounging and assumed the rigid pose of review. Mounted units cantered in. An open carriage appeared in the distance. “Shall we,” mumbled Adolf again; then he cleared his throat and fell silent, yielding reluctantly to external events utterly indifferent to him. . . and Stefanie had eyes only for the arriving palanquins of the archducal parade. (And anyway, there were people about, pushing and shoving. Adolf’s walking stick, intended as an adornment, was rapidly becoming a liability.)

“Oh, look!” Stefanie exclaimed. Two soldiers of the Leibregiment, the royal guard, mounted on chestnut bays; Hussars in leopardskin and bandoliers, riding sturdy Andalusians; two Dragoons, plumes nodding, breastplates afire, atop solid Lippizaners; a brace of Arab-mounted Bukovinans (red, green, and gold uniforms, shakos shaking, swords shining) from the Archduke’s favorite hunting grounds in the Empire’s easternmost marches; a couple of Linz policemen in uniforms so disproportionately extravagant—silver piping, polished jackboots, braided epaulettes—that they nearly outshone their charge, His Imperial Highness himself, the archduke Franz Ferdinand, heir to the twin thrones of the Dual Monarchy, seated ramrod-straight in the rear of the carriage next to his morganatic wife the poor Duchess Sophie, both unsmiling, neither waving, His Imperial Highness rather acknowledging the existence of the crowd by giving a series of curt nods beneath the lowering plumes of his archducal helmet, he and his Sophie fading adornments on the frothy Sachertorte that was the Austrian Empire.

“Anybody could shoot him, with him sitting there like that,” said Adolf, momentarily restored at the thought. A veteran of the Cowboy-and-Indian wars of Old Shatterhand, fought in the sagebrush and chaparral of Braunau and environs, he mimed a gun, pointed, fired. “Pow!” As if in synchronism (or premonition) the Archduke glanced around. His eyes met Adolf’s for a fraction of a second; he frowned, and was borne away. Stefanie nudged Adolf impatiently.

“Show some respect,” she said, herself showing (he thought) none for him. “The Archduke! He’s your future Emperor.”

“Pah,” said Adolf. “Emperor? Yours, maybe. Not mine.” He said this sotto voce, aware of most of the crowd’s adulation of Habsburgs (the fools). Not everyone was charmed, not in pro-German Linz. Cries of “Heil,” the Germanists’ salutation, vied with the pro-Habsburg “Hoch!” Cheers and jeers and comments adulatory and scornful were made. Franz Ferdinand and Sophie appeared oblivious to them all.

“Oh look! She’s so pretty.”

“If only he’d smile more.”

“Yes, but they say he’s quite nice.”

“They didn’t bring the children.”

“How many do they have? Three?”

“Four, I think.”

“Get rid of the lot, I say.”

“God save the Archduke!”

“Ach, piss on them.”

“Germany forever!”

“Heil!”

“Hoch!”

The imperial procession had passed, slowed, and had come to a halt at the Rathaus, farther up the Hauptplatz. The burgermeister and other notables bustled forth and proceeded to fawn over His Imperially Bored Highness in their best professional manner. Fortunately for Franz Ferdinand, at the end of the speeches there was lunch and a gallop around the stables and a cruise down the Danube, just His Imperial Self and his Sophie (and a retainer or two, or ten)...Stefanie was excited, even thrilled, and deemed the day a success, if only for this. And Adolf—well, Adolf was an artist, and you’d expect an artist to be grumpy and cynical, in this kind of situation. Still, there was artistry in the pomp and circumstance, and Stefanie, for all her longing for a vie de Bohème, had a deep reverence within her for the settled order, and family, and God; and she was Austrian enough to love it all. Momentarily, she waxed patriotic.

“God save the Archduke!”

“I’m hungry. Why don’t we, um.”

Plaintively, Adolf pleaded. He was hungry, and tired, and fed up. It was getting on for noon, and he wasn’t used to this kind of excitement and attention to another person not his mother. He was also sweating, and found himself almost (but not quite) longing for his quiet room in the flat in Urfahr (that attic window, those rooftops, the forested Pöstlingberg beyond). Not that Stefanie was any less alluring—somewhat more so, even, with a high color in her cheek and her blue eyes glistening with the emotion of having seen a genuine Imperial; and yet there were moments, and they were becoming more frequent, when he found himself damning all this man-woman rigmarole, the niceties of social life, the insincerity.

“Monchskeller,” said Stefanie.

“Begging your pardon, what?”

“The Monchskeller, on the Badgasse. It shouldn’t be too crowded, and they do a wonderful Linzer torte.”

Now, this appealed to Adolf. He perked up, even gave his cane a swing. Things were better now, with Linzer torte on the menu! An excellent idea. Few things got his juices flowing like a slice of pie in a restaurant and the concomitant opportunity to sit across from someone and expound on subjects of his choice. Inspired in advance, he offered Stefanie his elbow. She accepted, and arm-in-arm like Biedermeiers they crossed the square again against the melodious background of bells tolling twelve. The crowd was breaking up, with clumps of people gravitating mindlessly toward the Rathaus entrance from which, in an hour or so, the Archduke must emerge. The archducal phaeton sat outside, manned by the postern who had periodically to rouse himself and swat away curious boys. Adolf glanced back.

“What a fine carriage,” he said. “Someday I would like to ride in a carriage like that.”

The expression of this desire was in itself sufficient token of his improving mood; but when they arrived in the Monchskeller, and discovered an astonishing dearth of customers, with plenty of room next to the tall garden windows, Adolf was nearly euphoric. The long tables gleamed in the leafy green light from outside. Flags adorned the low ceiling beams, and in the corner behind the bar counter stood a souvenir of past campaigns, the military standard of the owner’s old regiment, the Styrian Jaegers. The owner himself, Herr Herzl, met them with a toothy grin and “Esteemed lady”s and “Fine gentleman”s galore. Adolf, responding in kind—good Austrian lad that he was—bowed and heel-clicked; masterfully, he selected the middle table of the row nearest the back, adjacent to the trellises of the as-yet empty wine garden; swashbucklingly, he tossed his cane, with a clatter, into the corner. His hat landed on the table. Stefanie settled herself, smoothed her skirts, and gazed into the garden, beyond which a blue patch of the blue Danube was visible between the neighboring houses and a spreading elm tree.

“Look,” she said. “The river.”

“Ah yes?”

Stefanie watched her companion as he finger-combed his hair, rapidly and nervously, adjusted his collar, cracked his knuckles, and arranged himself in what for him was an informal pose: torso forward, arms folded, a hearty scoutmaster on the verge of laughter, or anecdote. Both: he chuckled, then waxed expansive.

“Ah yes, the river. The beautiful blue Danube, ja? Haha? Our glorious Austrian heritage. Do you like the music of Strauss? I too, but a genius, our beloved Herr Johann? Well, frankly, no. Too much the musical patissier, too many fancy confections—not that I have anything against fancy confections, quite the contrary! I’m looking forward to this torte, you can believe that! But I’m sure you know what I mean. The Austrian character? The soul of old Vienna? All cosmetics, no substance! Now, as to the Habsburgs, the Archduke, ja, I was less than enthusiastic, earlier. Should I apologize? Not at all! Of course, I understand your need for some kind of higher power to adulate,” he said, chortling. “Many people feel that way, hence religion, not so? And of course when one’s gods are also one’s leaders, and gaily caparisoned they are in fancy uniforms and plumed helmets, with a thousand years of aristocracy behind them—well! It’s appealing, I don’t deny it! Like a permanent fancy-dress ball. But their day is done, their time has come, it’s all over with, they should be booted out. No more kings and emperors and queens and archdukes. Ousted, I say!”

Stefanie reclaimed a small corner of the conversation.

“Altogether, I don’t entirely disagree with you, Adolf, but I wanted to express my admiration for His Imperial Highness. I think he’s the best of the lot. And he has handsome mustaches.” She smiled, signifying flippancy, but Adolf had the unfortunate habit, born of literal-mindedness, of marrying high spirits and magisterial contempt for others. He waved a dismissive hand, as if to a servant.

“Handsome mustaches? Best of the lot? That bunch of syphilitic fops? Pah. Look at ‘em. Half Jewish, half Hungarian, and entirely Habsburg.”

“Jewish? The Archduke?”

“Oh yes, yes. Jewish! Well, you know. Not literally. In the way they use the term Jewish in Vienna, the way Herr Lueger uses it, it’s more of an idea than a fact...”

“However Herr Lueger uses it, it’s a fact in my family. We have Jewish cousins by marriage. In Vienna.”

Adolf was nonplussed. Herr Lueger, the Mayor of Vienna, was one of his heroes—a lesser presence in his personal empyrean than, say, Wagner, or Karl May, but a beacon in the ambient darkness, nonetheless. (And once again Stefanie had shown spirit, forthrightness, even insolence: contradicting him, dethroning Herr Lueger, enshrining Goethe, revealing Jewish links by marriage...where was it going to end?)

“Ah! So? Jewish in Vienna, eh? Well, of course. There are, I know, many Jews there. But your, ah connection is by marriage, you say?”

“By marriage, yes. A wealthy industrialist, knighted by the Emperor. Ernst von Kahane, Baron Ottoheinz. He married let me see my aunt Liesl, so. Yes. Cousins, but not by blood. I’ve heard their house is something grand indeed. You should visit them when you’re next in Vienna.”

“Ah. I don’t think so. Well, who knows. Perhaps, although I was planning to stay with my godparents, Herr und Frau Prinz. Distinguished folk, you know. Tell me, are these Jewish relatives of yours wealthy patrons of the arts? Or artists?”

“No. Well, they’re wealthy, of course. And they go to concerts and the opera and they have chamber music recitals at home, yes, and chess tournaments, Baron Ernst is a keen chessplayer. But art? No, I don’t think so.”

“Jews are very good at chamber music and chess.”

“Well, that’s very Austrian also, isn’t it? I mean, you can’t….”

Adolf narrowed his eyes. Their torte arrived. Initially courteous to the publican to the point of obsequiousness, Adolf now ignored him, so intense was his concentration within himself on topics dear to his heart. He stuffed his mouth with torte, chewed vigorously, swallowed, laid aside his fork. His eyes darted; his mouth worked; he blurted his thoughts.

“My mother is not well, you know. She has a cancer. She has a new doctor, a certain Bloch. He is Jewish, by the way. I would prefer she found someone else. I have no faith in his competence. Not because he is Jewish, incidentally, but because I have heard so-so reports from others. Well, I even looked here in Linz for another doctor, but nobody wants to make the trip out to Leonding, and they didn’t take to me, I could tell that straightaway, they thought I was too much the artist, or the outsider, or something, snobs, petty bourgeois in such a typical Austrian way...anyway, to get back to our subject, why am I using the term Austrian in the first place? What does Austrian really mean? Austrian, Austrian. I ask you to consider what that means. Germans of the Eastern Empire. Actually, it means nothing. The only distinction between the Germans of the Eastern Empire—Austrians—us—and the others, the Germans of the Greater Empire, is that conferred by us being ruled by that gang of overdressed syphilitic gypsy barons you seem to admire so much. Their fine mustaches, ha! I’d clip their fine mustaches, I can tell you! Not that I have much more use for the ruling clique of Prussia, I hasten to add. The Kaiser and his crowd, no, thank you very much! Red-faced Junkers with the brains of insects. They’re even worse than our lot, if that’s possible. Now. Allow me to describe to you my ideal form of government.”