"Madam, a circulating library in a town is as an evergreen tree of diabolical knowledge; it blossoms through the year. And depend on it that they who are so fond of handling the leaves, will long for the fruit at last." - Richard Brinsley Sheridan
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
“Thunder at Twilight: Vienna, 1913-1914”, by Frederic Morton
385 pages, Charles
Scribner's Sons, ISBN-13: 978-0684191430
Stalin, Lenin, Hitler, Freud, Jung…everyone knows the names,
but who were these people and what did they all have in common? How did Vienna
link them all? And then there are the names that are not on the tip of one's
tongue: Count Leopold von Berchtold, Gavrilo Princip, Trifko Grabez, Nedeljko
Cabrinivic. Who in the world were these people and how did their actions lead
the world into The Great War (which should perhaps have been more accurately
known as von Berchtold's War?) I can think of few other books, save Edmund Wilson's To the Finland Station and Andrei
Biely's St. Petersburg that so
brilliantly captures the spirit of a place in time as does Frederic Morton in Thunder at Twilight: Vienna, 1913-1914, bringing key figures to life and
recreating a vibrant sense of being there, in this case Vienna, on
the eve of the Great War. I was captivated from the first word to the last.
And what a cast of characters! Russian revolutionaries (Stalin,
Lenin, Trotsky); aristocrats and courtiers of the Habsburg dynasty (foremost
among them the Emperor Franz Joseph and the Crown Prince, Franz Ferdinand); the future
catalyst of WWII (that would be Adolf Hitler) and a host of intellectual and artistic
giants (Sigmund Freud, Thomas Mann, Oskar Kokoschka, Arnold Schönberg).
Impressively, the main narrative thread isn't lost in this colorful swirl of
personages; in fact, for a reader with even a modest grounding in European
history and culture, these numerous fleeting appearances only add to the
vibrancy of the tale.
I was swept up immediately by Morton's heady prose (at
times, I confess, I found it to dip rather heavily into the symbolic or engage
in the overly rhetorical flourish) but still his writing has undeniable
evocative power. Here, for instance, is a passage describing the eccentric
habit of a struggling artist living in poverty in a Viennese men's home:
…now the brush would drop from his
hand. He would push the palette aside. He would rise to his feet. He began to
speak, to shout, to orate. With hissing consonants and hall-filling vowels, he
launched into a harangue on morality, racial purity, the German mission and
Slav treachery, on Jews, Jesuits, and Freemasons. His forelock would toss, his
color-stained hands shred the air, his voice rise to an operatic pitch. Then,
just as suddenly as he had started, he would stop. He would gather his things
together with an imperious clatter, stalk off to his cubicle. And the others
would just stare after him.
That, of course, was a sketch of Adolf Hitler. But what most struck me after reading Morton's A Nervous Splendor (reviewed on March 26th, 2012) is
how well Morton had made clear the causes of World War I. Of course, everybody knows that the trigger was the assassination of Archduke Franz
Ferdinand by Gavrilo Princip; like me, however, many have undoubtedly wondered just who was this
Franz Ferdinand to have set off such a sequence of cataclysmic events. Morton
makes the ill-fated Crown Prince the central character of his book and, in doing
so, infuses it with heavy irony, for Franz Ferdinand was, despite all his
bluster, a constant advocate of peace, not war. That the Great War was begun
ostensibly on his account was the supreme, bloody irony.
Morton adroitly renders a sympathetic but unsentimental
portrait of Franz Ferdinand, highlighting his problematic relationship with his
uncle, the Emperor, and his devotion to his wife Sophie, whom he had married
contrary to all the Habsburg's wishes. If there is a tragedy here beyond the insane march
to war, it is this story of a prince and the sacrifices he made for his beloved
wife, who was continually slighted by a court intent on keeping her down among
the "non-royals" in its merciless pecking order. An amazing and amazingly entertaining book.
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