Will to Eternity by Peter Pogany

“Life has no meaning the moment you lose the illusion of being eternal.” (Jean Paul Sartre)

A forceful gust blew through the arrow slits of the Tunauwick castle on this late November day of 1805. Perched on a rocky crag, accessible only along a narrow, winding road, the formidable neo-gothic fortification had repelled many assaults since the Middle Ages when Germans first settled in Bohemia. Although by the time Napoleon roamed Europe, flankers and towers dotting defensive double walls had lost their strategic significance, they still sheltered the privileged from the mayhem.

Indeed, none of the harshness of the outside world was palpable in the sitting room of the palatial central building.

“Clean your skirt of hedonistic dreams my child,” advised Countess Tunauwick to her barely18-year old daughter, Theresa.

“I would rather pull out my tooth than stop dreaming, ma-ma,” flew the pert, self-confident reply.

“I understand that you are happy, liebling, but that is hardly a good reason to giggle at every word Georg utters. You must be a statue of virtue, a reticent maiden whose purity awakens a champion’s desire to rescue her from the convent. Use your education to have a witty conversation. Anyway, the two of you will be a married by Christmas and you will soon find out what life is about.”

Bathed till their skin turned transparently soft, perfumed with the latest fragrance from Milan, mother and daughter wore matching blue Kashmir gowns with blood-red velvet collars. They were ready to receive Theresa’s debonair fiancé, Baron Georg von Rauch, staff officer of the Austrian Cavalry and musical talent extraordinaire.

At present, Georg was conferring with Count Tunauwick, Theresa’s father, and a few other gentlemen. He gave an upbeat report about the war. Of course, the Austrian side was badly defeated at Ulm last month, but the Grand Army was weakened in the process and the battle allowed for the general staff to identify its fatal vulnerabilities.

“The decisive clash, which is only weeks if not days away, will most likely take place in Austerlitz: Meine Herren, the Usurper is about to be finished off for good,” Georg concluded.

They raised their glasses and drank to the imminent defeat of Napoleon.

Then the conversation turned to the future. The Holy Roman Empire, which had endured for over eight centuries, would continue its glorious presence in the heart of Europe for another thousand years. Hapsburg influence would spread after the war and “our lands” (the area which became known as the “Sudetenland” during the darkest years of the 20^th century) would become part of Austria.

They raised their glasses and drank to the prospect of joining their brethren; to continental Europe, which as long as it could be led by the Hapsburgs, would lead the world.

The Count sensed that Georg was getting impatient. He gave a subtle little sign to the others not to crowd into the sitting room right away; he wanted to allow Georg to see his fiancée alone, chaperoned, of course, by her mother.

The doorman soon announced him to the ladies:

“His Excellency, Baron Georg Karl Ludwig Justus von Rauch!”

Enter Georg with a cheerful “Are the ladies engaged in secret war council?”

“Of course,” answered the Countess, “We women often talk for no other reason than having begun to talk; servants, dresses, girlfriends, gossips — the usual fare, my friend.”

“Gossip is a dangerous thing,” remarked Georg. “Gossipers risk revealing more about themselves than about the subject of their talk.”

After the Countess received reassuring answers about the state of health in Georg’s family, the young man, who could not have been happier, paid his compliment to his fiancee:

“You are exquisitely beautiful tonight Theresa,” he said, adding hastily while looking at the mother “if I may say so.”

The mother nodded as if in reassurance that he did not overstep the boundaries of proper behavior.

Lit up by the flattering words, with which she whole-heartedly agreed, Theresa did not let the subject slide away:

“What is beautiful to a man in a woman, Baron?” she asked blushing deeply at the thought that she had promoted herself to the rank of “a woman.”

“Beautiful is either the one who is beautiful like the Venus of Milo or the one who is beautiful because she appeals to us to such an extent that we would like to spend our lives with her.”

“So, in which category am I?”

“You happened to be in both, my dear betrothed.”

The ladies were delighted — a gallant remark to be repeated far and wide. After some light bantering, they asked Georg to play something on the piano.

He did not let himself to be asked twice and sat at the huge black Streicher, the same instrument Beethoven used.

Hearing the warm, inviting sounds of melodic arpeggios, Count Tunauwick, accompanied by a few other men, including Theresa’s tutor, came in. Sitting in a semicircle they formed an audience.

Georg stood up:

“With your permission, meine Damen und Herren, I would like to offer as a tribute to Theresa, her highly esteemed parents and the gentlemen present my new composition — Für Theresa.”

Approving murmur of anticipation.

The piece (about 12 minutes long) began with a vivacious expression of joy. But soon lower voices, propelled by demoniac energy took the upper hand; the ebbs and flows of a deadly battle climaxed in a volcanic barrage of artillery. The finale conveyed a mysterious otherworldly vista of open skies and a hauntingly sublime mood of melancholic resignation.

The Countess closed her eyes during the performance and shook her head in disbelief. This devilishly good-looking officer, a well-to-do aristocrat with land in the Eastern provinces of the Hapsburg empire; connections at the court and a future in the diplomatic service — and to top it off — an artist of the highest caliber was about to become her son-in-law! For a moment she wanted to be Theresa, but she kept the same inclination to daydreaming, for which she had just reproached her, in check.

The two women were in tears as the last chord died down; the men were numbed by surprise and admiration. Then the Count put down his cigar and began an applause that the others joined with bravos.

“This is a veritable masterpiece, Baron,” noted the tutor — an accomplished pianist himself; “It will be played in concert halls around the world.”

Georg bowed to every one and after turning toward Theresa, remained in a bowed position.

Youth, wealth, beauty, honor! What a couple! Could life be more perfect, more solid?

Without mentioning or even alluding to the urgency of the military situation that made his visit so heartbreakingly short — women had to be insulated from all aspects of warring in polite society — Georg took his leave. The journey to the outskirts of Brüno, where he had to report to his regimental headquarters in three days, was about 200 kilometers from the Tunauwick castle. A stagecoach, drawn by four battle-tested stallions, was already waiting for him.

Given the exceptional circumstances, Theresa was allowed to escort Georg to the main portal. As the two walked down the hallways, he told her how impatient he was to return for the wedding. When she expressed similar sentiments, he tried to kiss her on the mouth and received a healthy slap. He apologized and the two continued their friendly conversation.

Theresa regretted her refusal forever.

On the bright morning of December 2, Georg lost his life in the battle of Austerlitz.

Hit in the chest, he fell from his horse, but did not die instantly. Lying on his back among hundreds of uniformed corpses, arms stretched as if nailed to a cross, he felt the dueling artilleries shake the cold ground beneath him.

“Help me God, I’m dying,” he whispered, starring at the sky. His plea was answered by a jubilant choir: “We shall sleep, but not forever; there will be a glorious dawn!” And, through the tempest of fiery rain and whirling smoke, he was lifted up into the clear blue firmament.

He found himself where saints, apostles, martyrs and church fathers lived their eternal lives in the great tranquility of picturesque stone benches, bubbling fountains, huge trees, and Greek statues — oh, how life-like, how ordinary everything seemed!

Sound of fanfares! Hosanna in the highest! “Glory, glory hallelujah” echoed the organ pipes of a shuddering universe. Georg saw the Lord appear among a host of angels from behind a gray sheet of silky cloud, felt the wholeness of his being . . .

Then he died.