Chapter 5

Otto Franz Joseph Karl Ludwig Maria (1865-1906)

When I woke in the morning I realized that there would be major problems over the next few days. It was Friday, the 22^nd. That meant that Sunday would be the 24^th. Christmas Eve. My wife and step-mother would insist on an ostentatious display of piety. Mass on both Sylvester and Christmas and money to their underlings. Gold to our servants, silver to the rabble.

I was revolted on Gruendonnerstag, too. [Maundy Thursday] Luckily, I missed their bounty theatricals this year.

Carl would be here. And Max. I will need to ask Josef. Roast goose on Monday and then a family excursion to the Cathedral for mass. I will attend mass, but not take communion. I cannot participate in that mockery.

Christmas Day will be worse. First the gift-giving; then we will join my uncle and my detestable brother at the Augustinerkirche. And the next day, the ladies will return to St. Stephen’s to celebrate his having been stoned to death. That was for his blasphemy. What of theirs’? Insincere. Faithless.

Was I any better? I had certainly led a sinful life. Fatally sinful. Perhaps my various pains were to atone for the previous pleasures. Then the coming days would be my penance. I would even attempt restraining sarcastic remarks directed towards Maria Josepha and Maria Theresa. Actually, I had to admit that I preferred my step-mother to my spouse.

*

I was a good student as a boy. I just wasn’t interested in what my father nor his brother wanted me to learn. And Albrecht was worse. Visiting two churches successively brought Jerome’s Latin back to me: In principio erat Verbum, et Verbum erat apud Deum, et Deus erat Verbum. Goethe’s Faust had trouble with that:

‘Tis written: “In the Beginning was the Word.” but he discards that.
Then thus: “In the Beginning was the Thought” and he discards that, too.
“In the Beginning was the Power,” I read. And then:
“In the Beginning was the Act.”

[Geschrieben steht: »im Anfang war das Wort!«
Geschrieben steht: im Anfang war der Sinn.
Es sollte stehn: im Anfang war die Kraft!
Und schreibe getrost: im Anfang war die That!]

And that lets Mephistopheles in. It’s Faust’s invitation to dinner: doubt in the word of God.

I certainly had my doubts. I still have my doubts.

I rode to the Central to see whether that group was bored with their families. The cafe wasn’t crowded, but it was far from barren and it was certainly smoke-filled. Altenberg was at his customary table.

“Your highness.”

“Did you have a good Christmas?”

“Days are days. I ate, I drank, I read, I wrote.”

“No celebration?”

“I eschew primitive idolatry.”

“Cruel.”

“Ah, you believe in an ancient bearded entity clad in a nightshirt whose son was martyred to redeem the transgression of a remote ancestor?”

“Crueler.” I turned to the waiter. “A large brown, please. Altenberg?”

“Another eighth.”

“Interesting. I was thinking of damnation.”

“Oh?”

“I was at Don Giovanni last week and will hear Tristan tomorrow.”

“You are a glutton for punishment.”

“Perhaps. But I was thinking of the beginning of Faust in relation to the end of the Don.”

“Go on.”

“Both protagonists summon their doom. The one by inviting the statue to dinner, the other by questioning the word of the Gospel.”

“That is an intriguing way of looking at it.”

At his point we were interrupted by two young women.

“Ah, Liesl and Gretl! Some wine?”

“Just coffee, please. We are in rehearsal.”

“May I present Erzherzog Otto? Otto, Liesl is in dark blue and Gretl is a ginger.”

“An honor, your highness,” said Liesl.

“Me too,” added Gretl with poor pronunciation.

“You are not a Viennese,” I remarked. She was very pretty, with pale blue eyes and bright red hair. Her skin was pale, but the cold had produced red spots on her cheeks and the tip of her short nose.

“No. I am Irish, I came here to study the dance.”

“Ah! Can I practice my English?”

“You are really an Archduke?”

“He’s ‘Handsome Otto’!” Altenberg blurted.

“Perhaps once, now I’m too old.”

“Are you coming to our opening?” asked Lisl.

“What is it? And when?” I responded.

“Saturday night. At the Theater an der Wien. A new operetta by Lehar.”

“I saw his Wienerfrauen years ago; but he had that flop last year. Is this one good?”

“I think so,” said Liesl. “But it’s not complete. Every day this past week there have been changes and new music and re-writing of previous new music. Right now Lehar is doing the parts for something that was changed this morning. It all seems very complicated, but to the dancers, the problems are the theatre’s, not the composer’s.”

“What do you ladies do?”

“Oh, a ball scene in the first act, a folk dance in the second and a cancan in the third. Lots of fancy costumes.”

“What do you think, Maggie?” I asked in English.

“Oh, the dances are pretty and varied. The stage crew laugh a lot, so the dialogue must be funny. I only understand half of it.”

“Were I younger, I would offer to help you with your Viennese.”

“Beware of him, Gretl!” Liesl interjected. “He has quite a reputation!”

“Oh, that is far behind me.”

Liesl snorted. “Anyway, will you come?”

“I will see what’s available. You said Saturday?”

“Yes. The curtain is at seven, we have to be there by five.” They gathered their cloaks and swept out.

“Charming girls,” Altenberg said.

“Perhaps I’ll go. I’ll phone Karczag and see about seating.”

“You’ll phone?”

“Well, I’ll have Josef do it. He’s more officious than I’ll ever be.”

*

So it was that I heard a beautiful Tristan on Friday – the younger Mann brother was absolutely correct about the break in the duet in the second act, it takes one far beyond reason – and to the Theater an der Wien on Saturday, where Josef had commandeered the left front box for me. The one with but three chairs. I was wearing military dress, having worn evening clothes to the Hofoper.

I was seated a few minutes before seven and noticed that there were eyes peeking around the edge of the curtain. The parterre seemed full, as did the first and second balconies opposite. I couldn’t tell whether the topmost tier was populated. There was motion on the stage near me. It was Gretl, waving. I nodded.

The lights dimmed, There was some applause and the music began. Only a few bars, not a real overture, and the curtains opened to a bright reception, men in various uniforms or tail coats, the women in varicolored gowns. We are at the Pontrevedran embassy in Paris. The opening speeches tell us that this is a party in honor of the birthday of the ruler of Pontrevedro and the guest of the evening will be a Mme. Glawari, who has recently become a very wealthy widow. There are several minor plots, but the important one centers on not permitting Glawari – the always lovely Mizzi Guenther – from marrying a Frenchman (and thereby impoverishing Pontrevedro. Our hero, Count Danilo (Treumann, of course) makes his appearance, drunk, and falls asleep. Glawari rids herself of her suitors and recognizes the count’s snore, revealing much concerning their common past. He wakes and the plot is revealed: Danilo was in love with Hanna, but she was too low socially for his family. Now a rich widow, she spurns him and he says he will never love her. A perfect matrimonial match!

There was some dancing – an interesting waltz and a few pleasant tunes. From the applause, the audience was quite happy.

During the interval, Liesl appeared.

“Your highness.”

“Good evening. So far, it seems pleasant.”

“It gets better. But we had an idea.”

“Eh?”

“The last act takes place at Maxim’s, a nightclub...”

“I have been there.”

“Then perhaps you could take a seat at a table.”

“On stage?”

“Yes.”

“It would be most improper.”

“And you are known for your proper behavior?”

“Ah!”

“I must fly, I have to change for this act.” She left.

The next act was chez Glawari. She is giving an authentic Pontrevedran folk party ... complete with Balkan dances and a pseudo-gypsy song. There is flirting, dancing, singing ... and the required misunderstanding and masquerade. Danilo marches out, singing that he’s going to Maxim’s where he’s understood and feels comfortable.

Only a moment into the next pause, the red-head appeared.

“Come with me,” she said in English.

I was seated at a small table to the rear of the stage. “You needn’t speak, unless you want to cheer,” I was told. A few minutes later the curtains opened. I had never realized how blinding the lights were. The audience was invisible.

The girls performed – just as chez Maxim – and the various plots are elaborated, the fan, the rendezvous, the necessity of impoverished Pontrevedro to retain the Glawari fortune. Hanna reveals that were she to marry, she would lose her wealth; Danilo feels that now he can confess his love to the (poor) widow. Hanna adds that she has no fortune because, per her late husband’s will, it becomes her new spouse’s possession. Other minor contretemps are solved and the act ends with a reprise of the waltz.