Kelenburg, March 16
To His Excellency, the Royal Minister of Foreign Affairs,
Count von Marzelsteff,
from Viscount von Ester-Klausen,
a national gentleman of the Kingdom of Guntreland.
Your Excellency,
I write to you in haste concerning an event of the utmost significance, with every pertinent detail faithfully recorded. Last evening I attended, in the company of Baron von Austenberg—a man said to be a greater archroyalist even than the Archqueen herself—the premiere of “Odilia and Lucian” in the Arch-Royal Opera, performed by the new ensemble, with Renz and Vrahe in the leading roles. This opera, as Your Excellency well knows, is the work of the great Sigislandic composer Urtol, inspired by the celebrated novel of Lokehess, and recounts the unhappy romance between a lady of the Bautian elite and a Sigislandic officer from the Twenty-Four Years’ War.
The largest opera house in the world—adorned with no fewer than six galleries—is, as one might expect, entirely dedicated to the Sigislandic purple, which colours the carpet of the parterre and the upholstery of the seats, forming a most harmonious contrast with the gilded chandeliers, columns, and ceiling ornaments.
No sooner had I entered his box than the Baron rose solemnly and offered me his condolences upon the violent death of Their Highnesses the Princes, fallen by the hand of the rebels, while at the same time pledging vengeance. He assured me that he and his adherents were laboring diligently toward the suppression of the Guntrelandic Revolution, and declared that he felt a special attachment to our cause, having once served as a volunteer in the royal army of Guntreland.
With the greatest disgust he spoke of the rebel leaders and of the populace that supports them, lamenting that many of our exiled countrymen have lost faith in victory and have surrendered themselves to pleasures and diversions, leaving their homeland in the bloody claws of the beast. He, on the other hand—as a “servant of the Archkingdom and friend of the Congress”—professes an unshakable belief in triumph, claiming to have a circle of the most trustworthy men operating secretly behind enemy lines, by whose aid, he declared, “the King shall be restored to Eustata in less than a year.”
He added that, with all respect to my person, he could not reveal more; yet, paradoxically, he spoke so loudly that one might think he wished the neighboring boxes to hear him. Let us hope that his words contained some measure of truth, and that his noble undertaking—of which perhaps Your Excellency has prior knowledge?—may indeed meet with success.
Sigismund feels himself entirely at home within the Arch-Royal Opera. Having offered me a pinch of Neulandish snuff, whose fragrance pervaded the box, he proudly directed my attention to the gilded decorations upon the galleries and above the stage, as well as to the relief portraits of all the Archkings, with their gilded years of reign inscribed above the proscenium. With particular reverence he pointed out the allegorical depiction of the Eight Estates, represented as female figures bearing torches and crowning Ferdinand the Founder, painted upon the ceiling—the inner side of the fourth dome of Kelenburg in size.
“Observe,” said he, “that there are eight figures, not ten, for so it was in the time of the Founder, and so it ought to have remained forever. What is more natural than that men should follow the calling of their fathers?”
It appeared to me that he harbored a special hatred for the Reform.
“Reform,” said he, “will destroy society and the family.
Her Majesty the Archqueen has too high an opinion of the poor,
and imagines that men can become better than those in whose houses they were reared.
That is impossible; and therefore the decision of your King,
who steadfastly maintains that any classification of the Sigislandic type
is inadmissible in his realm, has my full approval.”
It was noticeable that the parterre was filled with children in purple uniforms belonging to some of the state schools, for it is the policy of the Archqueen that all children, regardless of fortune, should have access to the jewels of Arch-Royal culture.
Sigismund began to loudly criticize the presence of so many children, who chattered and laughed while awaiting the beginning of the opera:
“If they start laughing or making comments, I shall be unable to watch!
In my father’s time such a thing would have been unthinkable.
The Arch-Royal Opera is not a playground—people must first learn proper manners
before they come to the opera.”
I endeavored to explain that these were Sigislandic children, who by growing up amidst the finest that Sigisland possesses would become lifelong proud and faithful Archroyalists, and that therefore he ought to look upon them with more benevolence. Yet he continued to express, in tones quite audible to half the hall, his contempt for these “sons of carrion-eaters and tanners.”
Still louder he commented upon a man in the neighboring box, claiming that he was poorly dressed and excessively hairy of face, and that he “must surely have werewolf blood.” The man was in truth a wealthy artisan from Evenlon, newly created Arch-Royal Master and appointed to the Arch-Royal Diet.
Wishing to avert an unpleasant scene, for Sigismund’s voice carried rather far, I turned the conversation to art.
At one moment there arose that characteristic sound of the tuning of the string instruments, and Sigismund, with an air of connoisseurship, began foretelling which instrument would next be heard and in what fashion. I soon perceived that from the instant we had entered his box he had been making a deliberate effort to raise his voice, so that all around might hear him and discern, by his every utterance, how great a baron and gentleman he was.
Then the liveried footmen, their wigs powdered and their scissors-shears in hand, extinguished in the same instant all the lights, and the orchestra commenced the overture, while Sigismund closed his eyes, luxuriating in every tone and stroking his bristling moustache with evident delight.
When the curtain rose and the performers appeared upon the stage — arrayed in the traditional costumes of the Founder's age, with their high collar-bands — and began the first aria, Sigismund himself raised his voice and sang aloud, his head proudly lifted and his opera-glass directed toward the scene, as if by joining in the melody he might show that he knew the entire work by heart.
During the intermission we repaired to the ceremonial salon, that privilege of the house of Austenberg and its guests since the days of Sigismund’s father, Anders, ninth Baron of Austenberg, who had so lavishly contributed to the restoration of the Opera’s edifice. While we sat upon the purple armchairs, inhaling the scent of Sigismund’s Neuland snuff, he discoursed to me, in the tone of a schoolmaster, upon the origins of Sigisland’s traditions.
“Upon their return from the Twenty-Four Years’ War,” he began, “many veterans were wont, on the anniversary of some gallant exploit or stirring episode of their campaigns, to commemorate the event in the company of their households, friends, and kindred, regaling them with a generous table and abundant drink. This custom spread ever more widely through Sigisland, until it came to the attention of the Founder-Archking himself, who saw in it the truest means of strengthening national unity and preserving the memory of that heroic generation, so that their example might inspire their descendants to equal heroism.
Therefore did he enact legislation ordaining that every veteran of his armies should choose one day of the year — the day upon which he had performed his greatest deed — and that this day should thenceforth, throughout the lifetime of the Archkingdom, be celebrated as the Feast of his Family Honour. He commanded that inquiry be made into the names of all who had fallen in war, that their memory might be handed down to their descendants; and to families in which no member had fought nor rendered signal service in time of war, he granted the right to commemorate one of the fallen heroes who had left no heirs, so that every Sigislander might possess his own Day of Family Honour, as both pride, obligation, and shining pattern of virtue for posterity.
The candle that burns in every home upon the Day of Family Honour symbolizes the flame of the Torches from which the Crown itself arises — the unity and strength of our fatherland. Noble and gentle houses, possessing the portrait of their founder, place the candle before that image. The Day of Family Honour descends to the sons, while daughters celebrate the day of their husband’s house, unless they be sole heirs of their own line and their husbands have elder brethren or other senior kinsmen who already inherit their forefather’s day, in which case the family adds the wife’s surname to that of the husband, and the husband takes the Day of Family Honour of his wife. Adopted children inherit the candle of their adopters, and naturalized foreigners receive the candle of one of the extinguished lines of their own order or category, appending that name to their own.
Thus there is today no Sigislander who lacks his Day of Family Honour, wherein he renews his spiritual bond with one of Sigisland’s heroes, draws unto himself that hero’s Archroyalist virtue, and thereby becomes a good and faithful Sigislandite, strengthening his devotion to the reigning Sovereign, who himself is in mystic communion with Ferdinand the Founder. The Day of Family Honour commemorates not only the ancestor of Ferdinand’s wars, but all that every generation of a house has accomplished for the Archkingdom since that time; and as families visit one another to hear of the forefathers of their friends, the strongest bond is formed among all Sigislanders of past, present, and future alike.”
I told him that it was a most beautiful custom, and thanked him for his kind explanation, for I had not known the precise rules by which the Sigisland Day of Family Honour is inherited. I then asked him to elucidate for me the origin of that curious Sigislandic usage called “the Right of Three Days.”
“This custom,” said he, “is bound to the person of Prince Adam-Felix, youngest son of the first Engelbert. He and the Viscountess Elvira, heiress of the comital house of von Hachs, met twice at court balls, and by mischance each conceived a poor opinion of the other. On the first occasion, Elvira beheld Adam-Felix playing a game of Ferdinanding, losing shamefully and squandering his army, appearing an abject commander — not knowing that he had purposely set aside his own designs and sought, for the challenge, to execute a strategy of mad daring once proposed to the Founder by a wandering merchant and ‘doctor of all sciences,’ merely to see how the Twenty-Four Years’ War might have fared had Ferdinand adopted that plan.
On the second meeting, during a conversation upon the dramas of the great Arcel, Elvira made a slip of the tongue, confusing the names of several characters, which left an impression of great ignorance, though in truth the contrary was the case. It so happened that they met a third time in a village through which both were passing upon their respective affairs, when a mighty flood rendered all roads impassable. As they were the only persons of the First Estate present, the village magistrate received them at the same table, and in the course of a day-long conversation they discovered a remarkable kinship of souls, and resolved to marry. From their union was born Paulus, who was to become Ferdinand-Paulus, the Fifth Archkingdom.
Since then, the custom has endured, that when a young man offers his suit to a maiden, she shall spend three days in his company before giving her answer. Formerly, of course, this right applied only to betrothals within the same estate, for marriages across the orders were permitted but rarely; yet in our time it is extended to all subjects of the Crown of Torches, regardless of categorical distinctions.”
When we returned to our seats in the box, he turned to historical themes, discoursing upon the greatness of Ferdinand II — though not without mention of his errors. He observed that Ferdinand I had dispatched Francis to Neuland while remaining himself upon the home continent, knowing that the first duty of a ruler is to maintain the political stability of his reign rather than to lead the army in person.
During the second intermission, as we ascended toward the foyer of the second gallery, where the Baron wished to show me the bust of his late father Anders, a band of those purple-clad children from the parterre came rushing up the stairs beside us, laughing loudly and eager to explore the whole edifice of the Opera — its marble corridors, its gilded crystal chandeliers. At this, Sigismund protested in a raised voice, exclaiming aloud: “Rabble!”
That he might not continue upon that subject, I turned the conversation by inquiring what he thought of our mutual acquaintance from Estana, Anton Zerlich — the one who has composed several shorter operas for the Mastership competitions[1], and who is now, with restless zeal and ardent enthusiasm, at work upon the grand piece for the competition themed The Purple Heart Upon Every Land Remains Purple Indeed, written in celebration of the Archqueen’s Reform, in the hope that it shall win him the coveted Master’s title which he desires less for the income it bestows than for the glory that accompanies it.
Sigismund replied that Zerlich possessed talent, and that he had heard some of his sonatas performed at Estana, by the musicians charged with maintaining the atmosphere of that salon — one of the few places, indeed, where those works are ever played, thanks to the friendship between Zerlich and Wagner, and to Wagner’s noble wish, as a true gentleman, to have a composer writing expressly for the events of his residence. Yet, Sigismund added, Zerlich held most deplorable political opinions — that he was a Henscherite — and that for this reason he could never respect him. He further asserted that Zerlich was romantically infatuated with the Archqueen, and that only this misplaced adoration had prevented him from already becoming a traitor; “It is childish,” said he, “and most unbecoming.”
Unlike Zerlich, he praised Tensen, a wealthy baker from Tenelon devoted to the old traditions, who would from time to time come to the capital upon business, bringing a touch of the common spirit into Estana. “I shall make of him,” said Sigismund, “a faithful soldier of the Reaction.”
We were standing by the statue of the Ninth Baron of Austenberg when we noticed, at the entrance to the foyer, a young, slender, black-haired woman in a plain black gown, pale of face, with two braids upon her shoulders. She had been standing there for some time, gazing toward us and listening to our discourse, her arm extended toward Sigismund — in her hand, a pistol.
“Long live the Reform! Long live Karolina-Luise! Death to the oppressor!” she cried.
But ere she could fire, the Baron, without the least hesitation, sprang upon her and bore her to the ground, calling loudly for the guards. Then, as the danger’s chill at last overtook him, he drew back his foot to strike her in the head, showing no pity for her sex — yet suddenly checked himself.
“She exalts the Archqueen,” said he, “therefore she is our sister, not an enemy nor a Henscherite.”
And with this, he gallantly helped her to her feet, delivering her into the hands of the purple-uniformed guards, saying, “Do not treat her harshly — she is our sister, deceived by traitors into attempting the life of an Arch-Royal baron.”
Endeavouring to preserve an air of unconcern, he drew from his pocket his snuff-box, took another pinch, and signalled that we should return to our box. Throughout the remainder of the opera he never once mentioned the attempt upon his life, and appeared far more affected by the tragic fate of the work’s protagonists.
In the final act, Odilia must return to her homeland, where the First False War has broken out, and where it is her duty to tend the wounded. Lucian goes with her, desiring, as an experienced soldier, to aid her cause, which is led by Adler — the first Challenger-Duke and later King. Yet Adler’s men slay him the moment he enters their camp, deeming it a disgrace that, in their Bautian false war, their side should rely upon the help of a foreigner. Odilia, driven to despair, rides through the battlefield seeking death in vain.
Sigismund, however, expressed admiration for Bautia, whose laws he declared to be the best suited to that nation, saying that thanks to their False War — which by statute they are bound to wage among themselves every twenty years if no true war arises — they are ever the most prepared of peoples for martial trial. “That custom,” said he, “ensures that the most capable shall ever reign among them — he who can command at least half the Elite and the people, and by war or cunning overthrow the reigning monarch, risking his head if he fails.”
I told him that I had heard from other Sigislanders the legend that Ferdinand, at the Congress of Elisina, had outwitted the Bautians — knowing how their vanity and love of battle would be flattered by the preservation of such a tradition — and that it was he who proposed they include their False War in the Congress Act as the sole legitimate mode of royal succession. Thus he condemned them, with their own consent, to the regular loss of men, weapons, and edifices, ensuring that they could never rival the Archkingdom in might, though by their abilities, knowledge, and habits of labour and war, they might otherwise well have equalled her.
I confessed my concern as to what might befall when old King Jobst should die, and whether the False War might wholly paralyse the Bautian military aid upon which our King may yet depend; and upon this subject we conversed as we left our box at the close of the performance.
Only when the performers, greeted by thunderous applause, had taken their bows before the audience—a scene reserved, in Sigisland, that nation which exalts the vanity of its artists into a matter of national pride, for the most exalted of occasions[2]—did we proceed toward the exit, where the carriages bearing the crest of Austenberg awaited us.
Various persons, having already heard whispers of the incident, now approached the Baron, inquiring with curiosity what had transpired and how he fared. Sigismund, visibly animated and relishing the admiration bestowed upon him, recounted the peril he had faced, relating in vivid detail his struggle with the would-be assassin.
At one moment, none other than Her Arch-Royal Majesty, Karolina-Louise, herself approached him. As though forgetting all political disagreements that had ever divided them, she looked upon him with compassion through her spectacles, and in a gentle and solicitous voice asked after his well-being, and whether there was aught she might do for him. He thanked her profoundly, replying that he required nothing save the protection of the Archkingdom’s strength and unity, “for it is enough,” said he, “that I live so long as I may serve that end.”
Thus our departure lasted somewhat longer than expected; and even as we rode in Sigismund’s carriage, which conveyed me to my villa, the Baron, with a glass of cherry liqueur in hand, continued to describe the adventure with passionate fervour—as though I had not myself been present—adding, “Had she been a Henscherite, by Ginschli’s matchstick! you would have had to restrain me by force from killing her, for regicides and traitors have neither rank nor sex, and have renounced their very right to live.”
The last thing I learned, this morning ere setting quill to paper, was that the would-be assassin’s name is Anina Harz, daughter of poor peasants; that she had but recently, with the highest marks, been assigned to the judicial-bureaucratic-treasury category. How lamentable!—that she, who had been granted a chance denied to all her forebears, whose station had never risen beyond that of clerk, should end not in the judge’s robe but in a dungeon for attempted murder.
They say she shows great courage before the gendarmes. To the investigators she declared that she sought to slay Austenberg in order to protect “the good Archqueen and her just Reform, which has given opportunity to all Sigislanders,” from a Baron who “wishes to restore the Estates and the old injustices,” and to strike fear into any who might follow his path. The decision, she said, had been hers alone, taken without counsel or persuasion; she had herself purchased the pistol, and bought her ticket to the opera—knowing the Baron would attend—spending upon it the last of her money, for she had otherwise devoted her entire salary to books.
The legislation of Karolina-Luiza having abolished the torture of prisoners, Anina’s statements must be accepted as true unless disproved. Under Sigislandic law she now faces ten years’ imprisonment and a thirty-year prohibition from categorical advancement, for attempting the life of a fellow subject—penalties which, indeed, would be identical had she committed the same crime against a foreigner, for Karolina-Luiza has abrogated the old Eugenian statute which had assigned unequal worth to the lives of “immediate” and “mediate” subjects of the Crown[3].
This, then, is my account of the evening at the Arch-Royal Opera with Baron Sigismund von Austenberg, and of the unsuccessful attempt upon his life. Concerning all other current affairs and correspondences, I shall report in my customary dispatch.
Honour the King, gentlemen!
Your most obedient servant,
Ester-Klausen
[1] In order to encourage the development of art, since the time of Ferdinand II, the Archroyal Mastery has regularly announced competitions for works of art of various kinds on a predetermined topic, usually related to the Twenty-Four Years' War and the reign of the first Archkings, whose winners were rewarded financialy. Already at the beginning of her reign, Karolina-Louisa lowered the threshold for rewarding participants in such competitions (awarding prizes not only to the winners but to a much larger number of those who would create a suitable work of art), so that a large number of artists could support themselves in this way. Contrary to Ferdinand, Karolina-Louise encouraged a more versatile choice of topics on which the Mastery competitions were announced.
[2] In Sigisland, out of respect for art, it is considered inappropriate for an artist to bow to the audience during applause or on any other occasion, unless in the presence of the Sigislandite Sovereign.
[3] Viscount Ester-Clausen is referring here to the Legislation, which - explaining this by the fact that a Sigislandenite is more cultured than a foreigner and therefore his life must be worth more - prescribed twice milder sanctions for crimes committed against foreigners (except national gentlemen) on Sigisland soil, compared to cases of crimes committed against Sigislandenites. Karolina-Louisa justified the equalization of punishments for the same crime regardless of the nationality of the victim, which a large part of the Sigisland people perceived as an attack on their perceived superiority over other nations, saying that she values the lives of all her subjects equally, whether direct or indirect ones.
