March 19, 2012

Vienna

All is well at the hotel, my room has pale wood paneling,high ceilings and opens onto the inner courtyard of the hotel, which has been renovated since I was here twenty years ago, but lost none of its charm: After signing in, a staff member is deputized to show me both a room with a bath and a room with a shower from which I may choose. I notice that he is a Sri Lankan Tamil. He speaks his native language, German and English, which is fortunate for me, because without his assistance, I could not have started up the WiFi.

Tafelspitz is on the menu at the hotel restaurant, served by a young and personable Turkish waiter named Emre. While I do not recognize him as such, in another part of the restaurant a young woman dressed as an affluent Turkish Muslim woman would be in Turkey --headscarf in brightly flowered challis print, blouse and skirt to the floor to match--helps herself to the condiments tray.

The subject of immigration is controversial in Austria, as in much of Europe, and the United States. Austria has two right wing parties opposed to foreign immigration, even as immigrants take jobs as taxi drivers, cleaners, waiters --jobs Austrians prefer not to have. The country's present coalition government is a reflection of the indecision on immigration and other issues.

Austrians are often said by Germans to be less hard working, to be afflicted with "schlumperei", which makes them less dynamic. What I find is that "schlumperei" has its points: This morning I leave the Konig von Ungarn at 9:00 a.m. to get to the Musikverein, Vienna's premier concert hall, to buy tickets for concerts this week. Before leaving, I have asked for a peppermint tea to be served to me in the lounge adjoining the restaurant. A hot pot of tea, a cup and saucer, sweetners, napkin and spoon are brought to me on a silver tray.

On account of my rush to make it to and from the Musikverein before Imre, my Hungarian contact in Vienna, arrives, I drink only one cup and leave. I make it to the Musikverein, buy the tickets and return to the hotel at 10:15 a.m. My tea is still waiting for me. As the Tamil waiter, snappily dressed in a crisp white jacket with gold buttons, passes by, he smiles warmly at me, I almost persuade myself that the staff knew I was coming back, which is why they did not take it away. I certainly enjoy having it, and give thanks for "schlumperei".

Despite my travel from Italy to Austria, one more sign of European integration beyond agreement on measures of language proficiency reveals itself: both Italy and Austria observe the same convention about paying for coffee or a meal in a cafe or restaurant. When in Bologna, Manuel, seeing that I always handed money to servers and then stated how much I turned over to them, told me that I should say nothing. The reason being that the custom is that when you hand over money and mention the amount you hand over, it is taken to mean that you are paying the stated amount over and above the required sum as an additional appreciation for the service.

At the Hofburg I decide to have a chocolate and an apfel strudel before starting the tour. My bill is E8.40 and I hand over E10. As soon as I have done so, the waiter says "Danke schon", and I realize that he has assumed I intended to tip him E1.60. I could ask for the change, but it is too difficult for me to say what I would need to in German, and his English is not good. I resolve to be more careful in the future --what if I handed over a E50? --and take a sip of the hot milk chocolate, which has been topped with a swirl of fresh whipped heavy cream. It is perfect. I bite into the apple strudel: it is exactly the ticket. It is a small thing to be generous in return for such rewards.

I go to the Sisi Museum, devoted to the cult of Franz Josef's consort, Elilzabeth, the daughter of the Duke of Bavaria, known as "Sisi". She was married to Franz Josef at sixteen, when he was twenty-one. Ravishingly beautiful, with fine white skin, delicate features and build, she had an extraordinary mane of hair, which she grew to maximum length and dressed elaborately. She was a great leader of fashion in her youth, but grew more reclusive in her late thirties. After issuing the "Bad Ischl" ultimatum to Franz Josef (the reasons for which are undisclosed in the exhibit), she began a life of peregrination that continued until she was assassinated in Geneva by an Italian anarchist, originally intending to murder the Duke d'Orleans. Sisi was about to board the steamer back to Montreux when her killer stabbed her with a thin file that made a small hole in her clothing. The Empress refused to be deterred by her violent encounter and boarded the steamer, only to collapse shortly after. She died the next day. She was sixty-eight.

When she no longer thought herself beautfiul, Sisi refused to allow herself to be formally photographed. She was an energetic hiker, horsewoman and huntress, as well as an early proponent of using weights to build strength. She fasted on fruit to keep her figure, and wrote self-regarding poetry bewailing her tragic existence. It is difficult to evaluate her personality. Surely narcisstic, she endured great tragedies: the death of her eldest daughter whom she took on a trip in disregard of the dowager empress' advice, the suicide at Mayerling of Rudolf, her syphylltic son and Crown Prince. Yet, unlike the Princess de Castiglione, the other great 19th century beauty whose obsession with her looks devolved into paranoia and madness, there is something deeply willful about Sisi that inspires our sympathy. She found the environment of the court stifling, which is easy to understand. She was crowned empress at the age of sixteen, and as she matured she perceived the folly of her existence at court. Visiting the royal apartments and then the silver rooms after the museum, it is easy to get a sense of the "bird in a gilded cage" existence that was her lot.

The Hofburg is vast, as each Hapsburg emperor built his own apartments next to those of the previous. The imperial family and their relatives and retainers were housed within and each clan had its interests to defend, making intrigues rife. As each new imperial residence adjoined, but was not attached to the previous, there was no way of moving between the different camps without being seen, an obstacle to behind-the-scenes machinations. However, each of the palaces could be breached via the roofs, with the result that each camp's messengers frequently ascended secret staircases that led to the roofs to deliver messages without being observed by those who were not supposed to know of them.

"Once you have seen one palace, you have seen them all" is my general rule, and regrettably, it applies to the Hofburg. Room after room paneled with red brocatde, the doors white and decorated with gold, nothing on display hints at whatever inspired loyalty to the Austro-Hungarian dynasty. To understand, perhaps it is necessary to read Austrian writers, particularly Robert Musil, whose multi-volume "The Man Without Qualities" vividly characterizes the personality of a servant of the empire, the protagonist's father, a lawyer and counselor of the Emperor, whose complete acceptance of the status quo is sharply contrasted with his son's utter disillusionment.

Walking through the Silver Rooms, past vitrine after vitrine lined with white and gold imperial porcelain, passing in front of a room entirely devoted to gold plate, another chock-a-block with gold candelabra, there is little to inspire delight. Silent deference seems to be more of what the Hapsburg dynasty in its last days hoped for. As we know, it was not to be Perhaps this is what comes of having too many houses.