Chapter 8

Chapter 8

So this was the state of affairs in Tyrol, the little country lost to Austria, though people in Vienna troubled themselves very little about it. The city on the Danube had recovered rapidly from the hardships of the French occupation. Money was still very scarce, but never had life in Vienna been more brilliant and animated than just at this period. In the beginning of the previous year, on January 1, 1808, the noble Hall of Apollo had been opened, with its fountains, parterres and Moorish apartments, where fashionable Vienna ate from solid silver plates. Strangers were enraptured by the polite attention with which they were everywhere received, and dreamed of the beauty and amiability of the Viennese ladies. All laughed, drank, danced on polished floors, enjoyed facile conquests, found delight in the cruel baiting of animals, in fairyland displays of fireworks and dazzling theatrical representations. What mattered the poor little backward country which the Emperor, by grace of Napoleon, had relinquished to the King of Bavaria for the sake of a long desired peace? The few persons affected by the shame and distress of the Germans, and who passed the nights in sleepless dismay, were neither distinguished nor influential. Besides, it was advisable to keep to oneself any expression of discontent.

 

And he himself, Peter Storck? Had he ever bestowed a thought on this fate of the people here, or regretted the humiliation of a country robbed and enslaved by foreigners?

 

He sighed deeply. A startled jay flew on some distance in front of him, surprised by the man in the cloak who was talking to himself. A black squirrel sprang up a tree over his head, and a drizzle of snow fell on the traveler.

 

His thoughts had become gloomy, and he must have climbed a good distance when he noticed that he had reached the top and that the path now ran nearly level. Huddled together in the hollow of a valley, and still visible in the growing desk, he saw the gray roofs of Sankt Marein, weighted with stones. A pointed church steeple stood out against the darkening sky.

 

The first house he came to was a spacious white building, and at the end of a long iron bar over the door swung a sign, a gilded Rose.

 

This then was his journey’s end for that day, and he was glad of it.