Chapter 9
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Translator: Silver Dragon
Chapter: 9
Chapter Title: The Crown Prince and the Clown
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The gallery felt as still and heavy as the eye of a storm. The ticking of the wall clock's second hand sounded like the blade of a guillotine dropping.
Morgenstern had already sweated through his shirt like he'd taken a shower. He kept retying his necktie for the third time, unable to calm down as he paced endlessly near the entrance.
"Hitler, are you sure about this? We could still cover it with the cloth even now..."
"Just stay still. You're making me nervous enough to die."
I replied indifferently while smoothing out the wrinkles on the cloth draped over the canvas.
Truth be told, I wasn't unshaken either. Archduke Franz Ferdinand. The man next to wear the crown after Emperor Franz Joseph I passed away. The very figure I'd only seen in history books was coming to see my painting—it felt unreal, yet sent a strange thrill through me at the same time.
Franz was picking at bread in the corner, furtively glancing around. He instinctively knew it too. The air in here wasn't normal.
"He's here! He's coming!"
Morgenstern whispered like he was screaming.
A procession of black carriages halted outside the window. Uniformed guards lined up, and the heavy carriage door swung open.
The attendants stepped out first. Then came a man in splendid military attire topped with a feathered hat. He had a stiff Kaiser mustache waxed to perfection, cold eyes, and a slight paunch—a middle-aged man.
Archduke Franz Ferdinand.
As he strode toward the gallery, the onlookers gathered at the entrance parted like the Red Sea. Some doffed their hats in respect, others backed away in fear. Power was such a visual thing. Just walking in was enough to crush the air around him.
Ding-a-ling.
The door bell rang out clearly. But no one could greet him warmly.
"Your Highness, it is an honor that you've graced us with your visit!"
Morgenstern rushed forward, bowing at a perfect ninety degrees. I stood behind him and offered only a light nod. Groveling wasn't my style. And an artist had to look 'dignified' even before power.
The Archduke barely acknowledged Morgenstern's greeting as he stepped inside. He seemed to have a habit of tapping the tip of his nose with his gloved hand. The attendants closed the gallery door and blocked the entrance.
"Are you the owner?"
The Archduke's voice was low and dry.
"Yes, yes! Samuel Morgenstern."
"The rumors were so loud I had to come see. Professor Berger was foaming at the mouth. Calling it a disgrace to the Empire, the devil's excrement."
The Archduke's gaze fixed on me.
"So you're the devil, I presume?"
I met his eyes straight on. His blue eyes gleamed coldly.
"The devil would have horns. I'm just a painter with a brush. Adolf Hitler."
My attendants flinched at my response. How dare he stare down the Crown Prince and talk back. But the Archduke surprisingly lifted the corner of his mouth.
"You've got spirit. Where's the painting?"
He headed first to Empire's Stomach hanging in the show window.
I swallowed hard. First hurdle.
The Archduke clasped his hands behind his back and stared at the painting. The lavish food on the table above, the grotesque rat-people below. His eyes roamed up and down.
The silence stretched on. Morgenstern looked like he was about to pass out.
"...Disgusting."
Those were the Archduke's first words.
"The food looks appetizing, but those things underneath make me want to vomit. Ruins the appetite."
"That's the point, Your Highness."
I interjected.
"The well-fed gag at the sight of the hungry. But the hungry hold back their nausea and scavenge what the well-fed drop. That's the uncomfortable coexistence I painted."
The Archduke slowly turned to look at me.
"Are you a socialist?"
A dangerous question. Saying 'yes' here would land me in a dungeon right away.
"No. I'm a realist. I paint what I see. Ideologies aren't visible, but hunger is."
The Archduke snorted.
"Good with words. I see why Berger got angry. Old men hate peeking under their own tables."
An unexpected reaction. I'd braced for rage, but instead came cynical agreement. Then again, the heir was conservative but reportedly despised Vienna's rotten court nobles. With sycophants crawling around him, the hypocrisy in that painting probably didn't feel like someone else's problem.
"And what's this?"
The Archduke pointed to the easel in the center of the gallery. The controversial piece covered in black cloth.
"My new work. Not unveiled yet."
"Show me."
I glanced at Morgenstern. He squeezed his eyes shut and turned away. Whatever.
I grabbed the cloth and yanked it off in one go.
Swish.
Show of the Unsaved was revealed.
Pitch-black darkness. Within it, vividly glowing colorful clown costumes. A pierrot nailed to the cross, laughing hysterically. And at its foot, golden blood dripping onto a pile of countless masks.
In that instant, the gallery air froze.
One of the Archduke's attendants gasped, "Heavens!" Blasphemy. Undeniable blasphemy to anyone who saw it.
The Archduke's face hardened. Gone was his earlier cynical ease; the fury of a devout Catholic rose on his features.
"What... what is the meaning of this?"
His voice trembled.
"Daring to hang a clown on the Lord's cross? Do you really want to die?"
Morgenstern collapsed to the floor. It was over. Now the guards would draw their swords and take my head.
But I didn't back down. I stepped forward instead.
"Your Highness, does that look like mockery of Jesus to you?"
"What else could it be? That red nose, that torn mouth! It's the devil's prank!"
"No. It's a visualization of the 'shame' Jesus endured."
I pointed to the clown's face in the painting.
"Roman soldiers crowned him with thorns, draped him in purple, mocked 'Hail, King of the Jews.' They spat and struck his cheeks. In that moment, to them, Jesus wasn't a king—he was a spectacle, a 'clown.'"
The Archduke's eyebrow twitched.
"We see only the noble, beautiful Jesus in icons. But the crucifixion was different. Covered in blood, stripped naked, subjected to every humiliation... the most wretched sight in the world. I expressed that wretchedness with the symbol of a clown."
"Sophistry! Even so, what's with that laughing face? He should be in agony—why is he smiling?"
"It's a sneer. Aimed at those who nailed him."
I moved my finger downward. To the pile of masks beneath the cross.
"Look at these masks. Smiling ones, crying ones, prim and proper ones. Whose faces are these? The hypocrites who nailed Jesus to the cross—and who still fill their desires with prayers in church today."
Strength entered my voice.
"They wear polite masks in daily life, but nail others to crosses whenever needed. Then they watch, like it's a circus. That clown is telling them: 'Your show is repulsive.'"
The Archduke fell silent. His gaze locked on the masks at the bottom of the painting.
Pig masks, fox masks, wolf masks.
Perhaps faces of the courtiers he met daily came to mind. If my guess was right, he was searching those masks for the people he despised.
"And look at this blood."
I threw my final card.
"It's not red. It's gold. The world treated him like a clown and killed him, but the blood he shed proves it's the most noble blood of God. A paradox: clown on the outside, divine at the core."
Silence.
A brutally long silence flowed. The Archduke didn't take his eyes off the painting. His breathing grew a bit ragged. Anger, or something else—I couldn't tell.
"Golden blood..."
He finally muttered after a long while.
"Golden blood falling on the hypocrites' masks."
He slowly raised his cane and tapped the mask section of the painting.
"This fox mask. It reminds me of that Foreign Minister I know."
Bingo.
I bit my lip to hold back a sigh of relief.
The Archduke chuckled. But it wasn't mirthful—it was a chilling cynicism.
"You walked a dangerous tightrope. If I were a stuffy old fool, you'd be dragged away by now."
"I believed Your Highness had excellent taste in art."
"Don't flatter me. It's creepy."
He lowered his cane and turned to me.
"How much?"
"Pardon?"
"This painting. What's the price."
Morgenstern sprang up. The face of a man back from the dead.
"Y-Your Highness! This painting... we haven't set a price yet, but if Your Highness desires it..."
"Whatever you name. But on one condition."
The Archduke's eyes gleamed.
"I'll hang this in my private study. Not for public display. Too... provocative for others. I'll savor it alone, with those damned masked fools as an appetizer."
Private collection. Disappointing, but not bad. The rumor of the heir buying it would spread anyway.
"And you."
The Archduke placed a hand on my shoulder. The cold leather glove pressed through.
"Be careful. Too much talent shortens life. Especially in Vienna."
A warning and advice.
"I'll keep that in mind."
The Archduke instructed an attendant to write a check. Morgenstern's eyes nearly popped out at the amount. It was easily a year's gallery revenue.
"Let's go."
The Archduke turned without lingering. The storm of tension ebbed like a receding tide. Ding-a-ling—with the door bell, they were gone, leaving just the three of us.
"W-We survived..."
Morgenstern sprawled on the floor.
"Hitler! You're insane! Lecturing the Crown Prince like that?"
"Not a lecture—a curation."
My legs gave out, and I slumped into a chair. Cold sweat drenched my back. My hands shook.
Damn, I thought I was dead.
No matter how much future knowledge you have, raw killing intent from a power holder makes your knees buckle. But I did it. I won the staring contest with the heir and defended my artistic vision.
"Mister, how many zeros is that?"
Franz peeked at the check and asked.
"Don't know. Just know it's enough to buy a bread factory and have change."
I stared at the empty easel where the canvas had been.
The heir bought it. Even the one stirring blasphemy controversy.
This rumor would blanket Vienna by tomorrow. Professor Berger wouldn't dare complain now. Trashing a painting endorsed by the heir would be insulting the imperial family.
Using power to crush power.
A thrilling victory.
"Beef for dinner tonight. Franz, pick whatever you want."
"For real? Cake too?"
"Yeah. Buy whatever you want."
We laughed uproariously. Morgenstern chuckled on the floor too.
But I knew. This wasn't the end.
The Archduke's parting words: 'Too much talent shortens life.'
Vienna's elite would see me not as a mere madman, but a dangerous agitator. More enemies, tighter surveillance.
Even better.
I thrive on attention.
I fiddled with the pencil in my pocket.
The heir's mask. The unease hidden under that cynical gaze. Maybe he sought solace in my painting because he knew he too was a giant empire's puppet—and clown.
The next painting came to mind.
Something more populist this time. But twisted my way.
"Morgenstern, cash the check tomorrow. For now, bring booze. The expensive stuff."
"Got it, got it. As our genius commands."
The champagne cork popped with a bang. Foam overflowed.
I raised my glass and looked out the window. Vienna's sky was dyed red. Like the golden blood in my painting—or the flames of the coming war.
Anyway, today I won.