Ferdinand (Part 3)
A crowd so dense it choked the narrow streets marched through the slums.
"My God... How long has it been since Vienna's urban renewal project? To think a place like this still exists."
"It's practically a wasteland."
"People actually live in a place like this?"
"Wait, look over there! A beggar!"
"What?! A beggar?! Quick, let's go give him some money!"
That day, a beggar lying on the street of the slums made a year's income in a single afternoon. The fat-bellied revolutionaries, including Archduke Franz Ferdinand, wandered through the slums as if they were tourists browsing a novelty shop.
"My word... why have such fine gentlemen come all the way out here when you usually wouldn't spare us a glance?"
"They are my friends. Please treat them kindly. And would you mind taking a photograph with us?"
"A photograph? Well, that's a bit..."
"Here is twenty kroner. I heard your mother's joints have been aching; use this to buy her some morphine."
"Of course, of course! How should I pose?"
Of course, since we had made the trip to the slums, we had to document it properly. Though the environment was beyond wretched—bordering on catastrophic—calling them merely "pitiful" felt a bit reductive. After all, this was still a place where humans lived. It was a community of people who loved, felt gratitude, and held onto their dignity despite everything.
But for the camera, they need to look as miserable as possible. That makes for a much better narrative.
Having frequented this place for six months, I had grown somewhat attached to the slum dwellers. I felt a bit guilty asking this of them. These were people who slaved away for twelve hours a day and still couldn't properly protect their families. But I needed to leave a stellar impression of Archduke Franz Ferdinand as the man looking after them.
Franz Ferdinand had to be seen as a man who, despite his noble birth, willingly descended to the lowest depths to experience the harsh reality of the Austrian people firsthand. That was the persona we had to build.
"Sir, please lie down on the bed and squint your eyes. Try to look like someone suffering from tuberculosis."
"Huh? But my cold cleared up last week..."
"I'll give you another ten kroner."
"Cough, cough... So, who's the gentleman getting his picture taken?"
"I am Franz Ferdinand, Archduke of the House of Habsburg."
"C-cough! Y-Y-Your Imperial Highness!"
My original intention was simply to escort the Archduke around and snap a few decent publicity photos. Surprisingly, however, both Archduke Franz Ferdinand and Duchess Sophie threw themselves into the volunteer work with genuine passion.
"Is this truly how a laborer lives?"
"Is this feed meant for horses? ...What? This is tonight's dinner? And they often go without even this?"
"Oh, heavens... Your Highness, what was our revenue from the estates this quarter?"
"We must release those funds here immediately. Come, Marx Stahl. Where is our next stop?"
From my various conversations with Franz, it was clear he possessed a genuine will to reform. However, that reformist drive had always been confined to the empire's political structure, never extending to the daily lives of the common people.
But this was his first time descending into the slums as the heir to the throne. Just looking at the streets had shocked him, but the reality went deeper: charity hospitals overflowing with the sick but severely lacking in doctors, crumbling tenements, and illiterate laborers who, even if they wanted to learn, couldn't spare a thought for education due to their grueling working conditions. He was undoubtedly shaken to his core by the grim reality of the slums.
"...To think we called ourselves revolutionaries while a living hell like this was unfolding right in the heart of the city, and we didn't even know?!"
"We only ever heard talk of the workers' plight. I had no idea it was this severe."
The half-baked revolutionaries who had previously only spouted rhetoric were equally stunned.
Consolidating the doomed Austro-Hungarian Empire was a task bordering on the impossible. Yet, conversely, it possessed a certain simplicity. If I worked myself to the bone and kept this empire afloat for just thirty more years, my mission to alter history would be complete!
Still... whoever sent me here, they surely didn't do it just so I could watch such a wretched history unfold.
I still didn't know exactly what to do. Nevertheless, a clear goal had crystallized. What was reform, after all? If we fixed these godawful issues one by one, society would naturally change.
And if the ruling class chose to avert their eyes from this miserable reality, or worse, actively exploit it like psychopaths? Well, then the oppressed would naturally pick up torches and pitchforks without me having to nudge them.
And so, the slum tour of Archduke Franz Ferdinand and the amateur revolutionaries came to an end. I didn't know how long it would last—much like a conscript's fleeting resolve to "be a good son" during basic training—but without exception, every single one of them now carried the spark of reform (or perhaps revolution) in their eyes.
"Now, let's take a group photo!"
When on official business, a group photo was an absolute necessity.
"Your Imperial Highness, please stand in the center. Next to him, Mr. Marx Stahl! And Professor Freud, please join them in the middle as well."
It felt a bit lacking. For an event like this, they really should have been doing finger hearts or raising their fists in a fighting pose. But it couldn't be helped. This was the first time they were taking such a dignified and solemn group photo. Surely it would turn out well?
"Alright, everyone! Smile! One, two, three!"
I had seen a photograph like this once in my past life. It featured Einstein, Heisenberg, Schrödinger, Niels Bohr, Marie Curie, and others—an SSS-tier lineup of scientists that would make any physicist drool. Was it the Solvay Conference? I hoped the people captured in this photo would also grow into giants who would shake the world. Or perhaps... this very photograph would mark the beginning of the empire's collapse.
Click!
"...Stop this. By any means necessary."
"We have already dispatched state police to every major press outlet, but..."
"But what?"
"We cannot control the press! The photographs are spreading like wildfire!"
The imperial court was in an absolute uproar over a single article. Normally, when a major scandal erupted in the palace, guessing the Archduke was the culprit would yield a ninety percent accuracy rate.
The Imperial Press Director shuddered as he recalled the massive scandal from a decade ago.
When the Archduke had first begun courting Sophie, a mere lady-in-waiting, and made a fuss about marrying her, the imperial court had naturally foamed at the mouth. No matter how hard they tried to censor the press, the media, having secured the scoop of the century—a romance between the heir to the throne and a common lady-in-waiting—had gone absolutely wild.
Archduke Franz Ferdinand lamented his reality of being surrounded by nothing but enemies within the palace, but perhaps he had brought it upon himself. Of course, the suffocating, rigid court was the real problem. After all, hadn't the Archduke's cousin, the former Crown Prince Rudolf, been driven mad by a loveless marriage and committed double suicide with his mistress? Perhaps the reason Franz Ferdinand rebelled so fiercely—and conversely, the reason the court tolerated his antics—lay in the shadow of that tragic suicide.
In any case, after the scandal of his romance with Sophie and the tragedy of Crown Prince Rudolf, what truly set the empire ablaze were these few photographs.
"The Press Bureau warned us that we'd face severe consequences if we published this..."
"Is that so? Then we shall refrain from printing it."
"Our rivals have just published the group photo as an exclusive!"
"...We hesitated and let those bastards scoop us! Publish it immediately! Drag out every photo we have, even the scraps!"
"But sir, didn't you just say we shouldn't print it? It's far too risky."
"Any paper that doesn't run this is a complete idiot! Just tweak the headlines to appease the court and print ten thousand extra copies!"
Conservative outlets and yellow journalism rags heavily bribed by the Press Bureau ran articles with highly malicious headlines.
A total of seven photographs were exposed to the world. Photos of the Archduke, wearing a mask, holding the hand of a tuberculosis patient. Photos of the Archduke and Sophie holding hands and playing with the children of the slums. The political pundits of Vienna, who loved nothing more than the sound of their own voices, went wild debating this inexplicable behavior.
"The imperial family has truly hit rock bottom. How utterly vulgar. With them posing for such ridiculous photographs, the end of the empire cannot be far off."
"You clearly know nothing, sir. Have you ever set foot in the 16th District even once?"
"What?! Those who do not work diligently for society should be starved to death—!"
"It seems the empire won't be ending the way you wish, sir. To think His Highness would descend to stand beside lowly folk like us... Perhaps the world truly is changing."
Aristocrats steeped in authoritarian pride, bourgeois capitalists far more devilish than any social Darwinist, small business owners, and laborers alike—everyone had something to say.
Whether they criticized or praised the Archduke's bizarre behavior, it was not merely a matter of frowning at an unimaginable stunt. Deep down, everyone felt a strange, burning sensation in their chests.
Naturally, the primary focus was on the Archduke and Sophie. Yet, as people stared intently at the world-shaking photographs, they couldn't help but notice the handsome, dark-haired young man standing right beside the Archduke in every single shot.
"Wait, doesn't this man look familiar?"
"Ah, it's him! The one who invented penicillin!"
"I saw him in the papers. Marx Stahl, they called him. Some madman claiming mold is medicine."
"My good man, do you actually believe that? Whatever the truth, he must have offended some high-and-mighty noble!"
"Is that so? Well, the people of the 16th District treat him like Saint Peter. There must be a good reason for it."
Stahl's stock, closely tied to his proximity to the Archduke, soared as well. And there was one man who was driven absolutely mad by Stahl's sudden rise.
"Everything was perfect from start to finish! So why on earth did it turn out like this?!"
Across all times and places, sages have warned us to watch our words for a reason. Words have power. At first, it was merely a hollow statement uttered solely to garner popularity. However...
"In my view, the Jews are the cancer of Vienna."
"How do we solve this recession? Why, we simply smash every Jewish shop to pieces."
Having repeated these words like a parrot and reaped immense political rewards from them, Karl Lueger, the Mayor of Vienna, had eventually come to truly believe his own empty anti-Semitic demagoguery.
"...Why the hell is that lantern-jawed Archduke sticking his nose in this?!"
In his early political career, Karl Lueger might have been a dream-filled revolutionary, much like Marx Stahl, raging against a corrupt empire. Like Stahl, he had faced constant opposition from the established political forces, the nobility, and the imperial court—and he still did. Because he was a commoner.
While Marx Stahl chose to descend into the slums to win the hearts of the people, Karl Lueger had chosen to descend into the beer halls to whip up popularity, much like a certain future painter.
With his feral political instincts, Karl Lueger tapped into the aimless rage of the workers and small business owners. True to his role as Adolf Hitler's future role model, he redirected that anger toward the Jews. Thanks to this, despite being a mere commoner, he managed to overcome the Kaiser's veto and seize the mayoralty of Vienna.
Now an established politician, Karl Lueger, like most self-made men, possessed nothing but sky-high pride and stubbornness.
"...I remember when I was elected Mayor of Vienna. The Kaiser vetoed my appointment three times. Why?"
He had only wanted to crush one miserable Jew. If Marx Stahl had surrendered to him, Lueger would have shown him mercy. He had planned to teach the naive Jewish youth how the world worked and guide him to contribute to the empire. But that plan had been utterly derailed.
To Lueger, it was a minor setback, hardly even a failure. But having walked the tightrope of politics for so long, paranoia had taken root. His anti-Semitic delusions, his trauma from dealing with the court and nobility, and all his deep-seated inferiority complexes, victim mentality, and self-doubt began to coalesce. What had started as a thoughtless attempt to crush an insect had now transformed into a historical mission.
"Hahaha! Now I see! Now I finally understand!"
Karl Lueger clapped, marveling at his own genius.
"I understand why those lantern-jawed Habsburgs and filthy noble bastards are conspiring to crush me! ...The Jews. The Jews have already infiltrated the imperial court itself!"
Karl Lueger, completely blinded by his inferiority complex!
"Yes. It is not yet time. Will that Jewish bastard stop here? The moment he grows arrogant under the Archduke's shadow and oversteps... that will be my chance."
Sitting on his bed and clipping his toenails, Marx Stahl suddenly felt a cold shiver run down his spine.
Having already introduced penicillin thirty years ahead of schedule, Stahl might have just unintentionally accelerated the rise of National Socialism by thirty years as well.