Another opening snippet, this of an alternate history. It continues with vignettes of them=prominent Wieners: J Strauss Jr, Herzl, Freud. Bruckner, Mahler, the Emperor, Klimt.
Mayerling
And what is this specter galloping so madly through the Vienna Woods in a morning not yet graced with sun? The way is steep and hilly and, in the dark, difficult to see. A misstep would kill the horse, perhaps its rider. Yet he does not rein in, for death echoes with every hoof-beat. His cloak snaps behind him and brushes the whispering black fir boughs where they encroach on the uncertain roadway. Foam flecks the nostrils of his steed. The hooves throw up clots of mud and dirty snow. Hard riding from the Baden railhead!
The weather has warmed, the snow is sluggish. The breath of man and beast are bright puffs of steam in what meager moonlight pierces the black lace of trees. The rider is silent, intent on his perilous course, his face half-concealed by a muffler of yellow and black. He knows what lies behind him, in that gay, nervous city on the Danube. He does not know what may lie before.
I
Sometimes beginnings can be seen in a death, and endings found in a squalling birth.
Vienna in the January of 1889 is a butterfly, and the Emperor Franz Josef its cocoon. Within his dull and dutiful manta, impatient larvae stir.
Not least of these worms is Crown Prince Rudolf Franz Karl Josef von Hapsburg, a slender man for such a weight of names. The prince believes in progress and industry and liberalism, but he is tomorrow’s emperor and in Vienna it is always yesterday. The Empire is a fairy tale, full of castles and princesses. There is no room in it for smokestacks or for so impertinent a thing as a bourgeoisie. History is suspended, his father ageless. Rudolf’s dashing, storybook features have grown gaunt and his eyes hollow from the eternal waiting. He is become a prince of masks, changing them as needed, perpetually ignored, perpetually dismissed. Respect is all he asks. He is Inspector General of the Royal-and-Imperial Army – and is never told of staff meetings. He wears the uniforms of a dozen regiments – and serves in none. He would like a kind word from his father. There is no telling what color his butterfly wings will flaunt when he explodes at last from the cocoon. That might depend on how long he must wait – or whether he waits. Recently, he has bought a farm near Mayerling to use as a hunting lodge.
(c) 2022. Michael F Flynn
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