There is No Paradise in the Place You Fled To
As the war with Denmark drew to a close, Vienna held its first Imperial Parliament (Reichsrat)—provisional—in 48 years.
And... it exploded immediately.
“I declare the opening of the Imperial Parliament (Reichsrat)!”
Thud—thud—
Before the gavel could even finish sounding,
“Objection! Why conduct proceedings only in German? Call it the Imperial Diet (Dieta Imperii) instead!”
It blew up from the start.
An Italian delegate slammed his desk and shot to his feet.
“This is the Imperial Parliament! Don’t you know German is the empire’s official language?”
An Austrian delegate fired back.
“We pay the most taxes, yet you demand we speak your tongue? What kind of bandit logic is that!”
“What? Bandit? You pasta-munching peddlers, daring to defile this sacred parliament!”
“Sacred? Don’t make me laugh! Who pays that ‘sacred’ imperial army’s wages? Us Milanese merchants!”
“Think money buys everything? We Germans are the ones shedding blood!”
“Blood? Did our Venetian lads spill wine instead when they marched off to fight Denmark?”
“Kill them! Those arrogant German swine!”
“What? German? You traitors! Guards! Guards!”
“Imperial Parliament be damned! We’re a kingdom too! Use Dieta only!”
Bohemian delegates bellowed in Czech, while the Hungarians stood with arms crossed, smirking.
Galician delegates scanned the room, wondering which side might toss them a crumb.
It took just five minutes—five minutes from the moment everyone started yelling in their own languages—for Emperor Franz Joseph’s painstakingly crafted compromise slate to devolve into a gladiatorial pit.
“Provide Czech interpreters! How dare you when a representative of the Kingdom of Bohemia speaks!”
This time, it erupted from the north.
A Czech delegate from Prague pounded his desk.
“You think this is Prague? This is His Majesty the Emperor’s presence! Save that vulgar Slavic gibberish for the stables!”
A Viennese bourgeois sneered, and the Czech’s face flushed purple with rage.
“Vulgar? Who fed the Habsburgs bread when they were starving in Vienna? Us Bohemian peasants!”
“Hand out a loaf and play the lord? Burn like Jan Hus and learn your place!”
“Austrians good only for witch hunts!”
Crash—!
This time, a chair leg flew.
A Galician count, who’d been feigning decorum, tried mediating in French.
“Gentlemen, please calm down. Messieurs, s'il vous plaît. We are civilized men...”
“Shut it, you Pole! French? Is this Paris? Still pining for Napoleon, eh?”
“What? Napoleon? You illiterate sausage peddler!”
He yanked off his shoe and hurled it straight at a German delegate’s skull.
“Argh! My head!”
“Grab him! Seize that Pole!”
The chamber was pure pandemonium.
German, Italian, Czech, Polish, Slovenian... Even the Tower of Babel’s collapse must’ve been quieter.
Unable to understand one another, insults escalated; misunderstanding led to fists flying first.
In that bedlam, one oasis of peace: the Hungarian delegation, arms crossed, watching with smirks.
Andrássy Gyula pulled out a cigar, then remembered the emperor and tucked it away.
“Her Majesty the Empress nailed it. A forced bundle of straw. One spark, and they all burn together.”
“Count, shouldn’t we at least pretend to intervene? His Majesty looks grim.”
“Let it ride. Step in, and they’ll gang up, howling about Magyar barbarians tearing things up. Best to spectate.”
“Hey! You Hungarians! Why just gawk!”
Sparks flew their way at last.
“Tax-dodging thieves, watching like it’s a neighbor’s fire!”
“Thieves? How wounding. We’re mere ‘foreign observers.’”
“What? Foreign?”
“Isn’t this the ‘Austrian Imperial Parliament’? We’re subjects of the ‘Kingdom of Hungary.’ Bad form to brawl in someone else’s house.”
“You—you secessionist scum!”
“Guards! Haul those bastards out first!”
Franz Joseph silently watched the chaotic miniature of his empire unfold.
“Your Majesty... we must evacuate.”
Grüne whispered, ashen-faced.
Franz Joseph sighed deeply.
His mother urged beating them into unity with clubs; Sisi, buying it with purses.
But these beasts before him? Neither stick nor carrot would work.
“...Let them be.”
“Pardon?”
“No casualties yet. They’ll hush when spent.”
The chairman slammed the gavel as if to splinter the podium.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
“Silence! Silence! His Majesty the Emperor watches!”
“Emperor” halted the melee.
Hands released collars; chairs righted.
Storm’s-before calm.
Now, perhaps, actual talk.
The chairman mopped cold sweat and read the agenda.
“Ahem. Assuming order restored, Item One: ‘Special Imperial Defense Tax for Danish War.’ Per the Imperial Ministry’s calculations...”
“Objection! Tyrolean gunners bled on the front! Demand payment from those who staked their lives?”
“Only you bled? Bohemia sent riflemen to the ranks!”
“That’s what infantry do.”
“What?”
As flames reignited, a Lombard delegate cut in.
“Hold—defense tax, you say?”
“Yes, defense tax.”
“Isn’t the Danish War a German Confederation affair? Saving Schleswig-Holstein as German soil?”
“Precisely! As host nation, we...”
“Then let Germans foot it. Why us Lombards?”
“What?”
“What do we gain from Holstein’s rescue? Cheaper beer? Lower tariffs? Beneficiaries pay—that’s fair trade.”
Galicians and Croats cheered.
“Spot on! Why raid our pockets for your bash!”
“German wars on German coin!”
“You philistines! Empire’s glory is yours too! As one beneath the Habsburg banner...”
“Glory? Hoard it yourselves! We get tax notices!”
“P-profit...! Merchant scum sans patriotism!”
“Patriotism? Show what the realm does for me first! Adores subjects at tax time; muzzles us for rights!”
Waaah—!
Chaos anew, fiercer.
Money sparks feuds even kin; betwixt ethnicities, worse.
Andrássy, corner spectator, raised a hand.
“Mr. Chairman.”
Quiet fell, curiosity piqued at Hungarian drivel.
“As Kingdom of Hungary’s delegate, a word.”
“Speak, Count Andrássy.”
The chairman clutched the straw.
Noble blood—surely decorum.
“We abstain from this debate.”
“Abstain?”
“No duty to tax the Imperial Parliament.”
“What sophistry! Hungary’s imperial soil!”
A Viennese bellowed; Andrássy waved a frayed parchment copy from his coat.
“By the 1723 Pragmatic Sanction, Hungary affirmed Habsburg lands’ indivisibility for respect of its laws, customs, privileges—thus crowned Maria Theresa Queen of Hungary.”
No mere oil—he’d lobbed dynamite.
“Hence, Hungarian taxes fall to the Hungarian Diet alone. Levy what you will amongst yourselves; it’s no affair of ours.”
“You cheeky Magyar!”
“We pay, bleed—you toy with tomes?”
“Smash those first! The Hungarians!”
Brawl shifted: Hungary versus all; thence battle royale.
Hours passed, vigor unspent; Franz Joseph squeezed eyes shut.
“...Chairman, adjourn. Today’s lost.”
Someone played villain to scrap it; emperor’s burden.
“Adjourn! Adjourn! Guards! Arrest all!”
The chairman shrieked, but parliament was arena.
Franz Joseph rose quietly.
“......Let’s go.”
“Whither, Your Majesty?”
“Anywhere. Quieter than here.”
To mother for counsel, wife for solace.
What parley with beasts?
Exiting the mad revel, he halted at empress and archduchess afar in the hall.
Together?
Unofficial? Forbidden pairing.
Parliament’s riot: noisy hell. Their tandem silence: suffocating hell.
“Your Majesty?”
Grüne called, puzzled at his backpedal.
“Official socials today?”
“Parliament opening only—no other engagements.”
As Franz Joseph dithered, they spotted him.
“Franzi.” “Yosha.”
Endearments, yet inexplicable chill.
No paradise in flight’s refuge.