truly, I dislike it here. The climate does not at all agree with me, being both damp and dry, and the hotel is somewhat vile: this morning there were silverfish in the bath, many silverfish, as if a thriving colony had been disturbed. I am no aesthete, I have slept in the fields many a night, but when my business here concludes I will not be sorry.
Others have business here as well, differing steps in the same dance, though not all dance to the same tune: my associate Jürgen Vidor, of course, as well as the foolish little mayor, and the bewhiskered colonel who measures me, man-to-man and eye to eye; he is predictably hardheaded, I think, that Essenhigh, but it is never too early to cement local alliances, the town will be annexed by the military very soon. The shops are still open, there is still meat and fuel to be had, but this will not last the winter. And as ever, carrion will bring the ravens. I will have returned to Brussels by then, or at least that is my modest hope, but our holdings in Archenberg will continue to require protection, and here is where the garrison is housed. No matter the civil shortages, the town lies close enough to a railway that our resupply will pose no lasting problems; certainly the General is sanguine. Whatever disorder awaits the region, our interests will finally prevail: order is the true handmaiden of commerce, always. It is why I left the diplomatic corps.
Though I am but an agent of commerce, still I strive to see beyond the horizon imposed by the demands of that commerce. And as a man and a citizen, it is surely one’s duty to participate in the widest world possible to one’s station in life. Therefore, I have closely observed several of these “revolutions,” these periods of flux, and always what intrigues me are the patterns one finds.
Men are, at bottom, most predictable creatures, with predictable rages and woes. The majority of the citizenry pose no threat at all to our interests: one may soothe them with promises, or bully them forward with the fist, much like driving cattle. But always there are the few who act, and react, according to their own inner lights. I have lately read some interesting theories as to why this should be so: does a man’s inner spirit drive his actions, say, or do the actions form the spirit, as a glass shapes the liquid it holds? My own belief is that we see a man most clearly in his wants.
Consider my current colleagues. The mayor, Redgrave, is purely cattle, he wants only to be fed and cosseted and kept from real harm. On the wants of his disgusting attaché I will not speculate; they do not signify, as he finally does not. The colonel—I do not know the colonel well enough, yet, to say what it is he most desires, other than what all military men desire, power over others. No one becomes a soldier for the rations, after all.
Now consider Jürgen Vidor. By his will, we must meet here, in this barren little town—instead of in Archenberg, where the General visits weekly, where the accommodations are, if not lavish, at least more civilized—because of this Rupert Bok, the brothel keeper, to whom Vidor is plainly attached. Now why this man, and not another? and to a degree unmatched in Vidor’s history? Always before, he has prized variety, and anonymity, and discretion most of all. It is a very curious thing.
The mayor does not mark this, though that attaché is more thoroughly in the know. The colonel also is unaware, but our evening at the theatre must have shown him something, if he has eyes to see…. I myself enjoyed that evening very much, especially the fine surprise of seeing Dusan onstage—I had last seen him perform in Brussels, he was calling himself something different there, and something else again here. But there is no mistaking true artistry. Those puppets! They are just like little men, though spared the dullness of death and the rigors of conscience. Very entertaining. And what a clever stroke, to mix them with the
Others have business here as well, differing steps in the same dance, though not all dance to the same tune: my associate Jürgen Vidor, of course, as well as the foolish little mayor, and the bewhiskered colonel who measures me, man-to-man and eye to eye; he is predictably hardheaded, I think, that Essenhigh, but it is never too early to cement local alliances, the town will be annexed by the military very soon. The shops are still open, there is still meat and fuel to be had, but this will not last the winter. And as ever, carrion will bring the ravens. I will have returned to Brussels by then, or at least that is my modest hope, but our holdings in Archenberg will continue to require protection, and here is where the garrison is housed. No matter the civil shortages, the town lies close enough to a railway that our resupply will pose no lasting problems; certainly the General is sanguine. Whatever disorder awaits the region, our interests will finally prevail: order is the true handmaiden of commerce, always. It is why I left the diplomatic corps.
Though I am but an agent of commerce, still I strive to see beyond the horizon imposed by the demands of that commerce. And as a man and a citizen, it is surely one’s duty to participate in the widest world possible to one’s station in life. Therefore, I have closely observed several of these “revolutions,” these periods of flux, and always what intrigues me are the patterns one finds.
Men are, at bottom, most predictable creatures, with predictable rages and woes. The majority of the citizenry pose no threat at all to our interests: one may soothe them with promises, or bully them forward with the fist, much like driving cattle. But always there are the few who act, and react, according to their own inner lights. I have lately read some interesting theories as to why this should be so: does a man’s inner spirit drive his actions, say, or do the actions form the spirit, as a glass shapes the liquid it holds? My own belief is that we see a man most clearly in his wants.
Consider my current colleagues. The mayor, Redgrave, is purely cattle, he wants only to be fed and cosseted and kept from real harm. On the wants of his disgusting attaché I will not speculate; they do not signify, as he finally does not. The colonel—I do not know the colonel well enough, yet, to say what it is he most desires, other than what all military men desire, power over others. No one becomes a soldier for the rations, after all.
Now consider Jürgen Vidor. By his will, we must meet here, in this barren little town—instead of in Archenberg, where the General visits weekly, where the accommodations are, if not lavish, at least more civilized—because of this Rupert Bok, the brothel keeper, to whom Vidor is plainly attached. Now why this man, and not another? and to a degree unmatched in Vidor’s history? Always before, he has prized variety, and anonymity, and discretion most of all. It is a very curious thing.
The mayor does not mark this, though that attaché is more thoroughly in the know. The colonel also is unaware, but our evening at the theatre must have shown him something, if he has eyes to see…. I myself enjoyed that evening very much, especially the fine surprise of seeing Dusan onstage—I had last seen him perform in Brussels, he was calling himself something different there, and something else again here. But there is no mistaking true artistry. Those puppets! They are just like little men, though spared the dullness of death and the rigors of conscience. Very entertaining. And what a clever stroke, to mix them with the
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