Münchengrätz, September 1833
“I have been hearing disturbing reports from Congress Poland from my Third Chancellery,” ventured Nicholas I, Emperor and Autocrat of All Russia, over a cup of tea with Klemens von Metternich. The old statesman had collapsed a bit in the few months since their last meeting; his letters had bemoaned the alarming tendency of the Austrian heir to go on wild tangents, attempting to accommodate the strange myth of nationalism. Metternich remained confident that Joseph Ferdinand would give up on that “wild goose chase”; Nicholas, being rather more cautious and finicky, intended to keep a longer vigil.
“Oh?” asked Metternich. His hair was truly greying now; his teeth were giving up the ghost. His hands shook a bit as he raised the cup to his thin lips.
“The Free City of Kraków is, as usual,” –Nicholas sighed heavily- “filled with Polish propaganda. But of late there are tales of support from the Austrian side of the border.”
Metternich stiffened. What light illuminated his face betrayed nothing of his thoughts.
“Lemberg, to be exact. Your Joseph Ferdinand is a formidable man! Like Prussia, he too has freed the serfs. Is he not leading them on grand tours around the Empire, cowing the landholders and lighting the torch of freedom?” Nicholas’ gaze was mournful; his grand moustache quivering ever so slightly.
“They say he styles himself
Steward of Galicia. To me it sounds an awful lot like he is holding Galicia in trust before its final release from the grasp of such reactionaries like us.”
A swarm of German invective coursed from the door. Metternich and Nicholas turned to see Francis I, Emperor of Austria, King of Hungary, Croatia, Bohemia, Lombardy-Venetia and others, staring at the spreading pool of sweet-smelling liquid on the floor and the remains of the exquisite Chinese cup.
Breslau, June 1833
“I don’t understand it,” Frederick Wilhelm III of Prussia said, looking confused.
“…hm?” Francis said, looking up from where he had been staring at the pile of paperwork on his desk. Frederick puffed merrily on his pipe and got up to pace.
“Did you authorize Ludwig of Bavaria- that excitable little spaniel- to act as your right-hand man, Franz? Your son sent a letter to the Princes in the Confederation conferring certain privileges on Ludwig. I can’t say he’ll find a good and proper use for them. Too frivolous in my opinion.” Frederick shook his head.
Francis wondered. But at the time he had said, “I’m sure Joseph knows what he’s doing. God knows the boy is faster than I was at his age. He might see something in Ludwig, perhaps?”
Metternich had remarked on the startling economic capability of Prussia. Francis liked to think that it was because of Silesia; it didn’t make him feel any better, but such was life. Austria alone was not being drawn into the Prussia orbit, on account of Joseph’s reforms; it was, in fact, already near-able to compete. Francis did not, contrary to how much of his family and the aristocracy thought of him, spend most of his days in the garden tending to his flowers; yes, a few hours every day here and there, but not with that sort of all-consuming passion.
Ludwig was an incompetent, repressive little piece of
scheisse. On the one hand, Joseph had done well to prevent Prussia from becoming too powerful; now, instead of a long fight with eventual victory, Austria might be able to end Prussia with a few hard strokes. On the other… if Joseph’s actions were symbolic of his future actions as Emperor, Francis could not admit that he liked the direction his policies were going, which was further and further away from conservatism and the German Confederation.
Vienna, December 1833
“…your industrialization, and that will be all!”
“Father-”
“Do you want me to remove what few privileges you haven’t squandered? Get out!
Get out!”
Joseph Ferdinand emerged from his father’s study red in the face. Down the stairs he trundled, deliberately putting his weight on the bad stair and forming cracks in the expensive oak. As he emerged into the garden, he removed his pocket watch, opening and closing it obsessively. Up into his own mansion, his own carriage, his own men; and finally, his wife in the foyer.
Ignoring his wife’s sympathetic face, her outstretched hands, Joseph removed his greatcoat first, hurling it across the room, and then flung his pocket watch at one of the cabinets, watching with some bloodthirsty satisfaction as it shattered the glass. He ran a hand through his sweat-matted hair, thinking furiously.
“Joseph, what’s the matter? Please, let me help,” pleaded Maria Anna of Savoy, laying a cool hand on her husband’s clenched fist.
Savoy. Savoy! That’s it.
“Maria,” Joseph began, calmly, a vein throbbing in his head, “We’ll be leaving for Turin in a bit. Inform your cousin Charles Albert about that visit, please.”
“I don’t understand,” Maria Anna began.
“Remember when I introduced him to Viglione? That Italian businessman? He’s a member of the Carbonari. Metternich- it has to be Metternich, him and the barbarian Tsar. Metternich and his repressions against Lombardy-Venetia. We can’t have Italians on both sides of the border. Neat lines.”
“Joseph, you’re scaring me.”
“Metternich wants war. He’ll get a war. Oh, by God, he’ll get a war. I’ll need to visit the relatives.”