The King's Librarian

[Inspired by a reading about the Hapsburg Dynasty in the Harvard Library, and a observations of an old man I watched there]

It has been six months now since the Heir Ferdinand I was coroneted Holy Roman Emperor Ferdinand I. People have moved on, trade continues, old feuds are brought before the new king. I am doing as I always have: keeping the Royal Library in order. My job has hardly changed in all these years I've been doing it. Almost no one uses the vast resources here. The old King did though. He liked that it was so quiet and empty. He would come by sometimes, after I had shut the main doors for the night. His entrance was the one I myself favored, one no one really is supposed to know about, because it's not supposed to be there.

Once in a while, he would ask me to look for an old record or journal if he couldn't locate it himself, but for the most part he would browse the shelves quietly, gently lifting books down from their spaces and returning them with just as much care. Sometimes he would sit by the back window, writing letters while I puttered about, lighting lamps, putting books from that day in their beds, and even until I returned to put out the lights again.

The new king has yet to come, and I miss the quiet evenings. It is strange, perhaps, and perhaps a bit pretentious, but I felt I got to know the King Francis when he came here. It was nice knowing. Knowing that the King sought out a quiet, still place to read the just as any of us might. To know that the King cared for the Empire even while his people slept.

The new Emperor does not seem interested in the knowledge held here nor the serenity of books in the evening, for he has not come here yet. He is not as close to the books and the quiet as the old King. And I worry he will not love the people and land as well as the King Francis did.

He has yet to hold the Common Court, and my friends outside the castle tell me that the people are getting restless. They want to know their king, not just look up at him.

It is time to close the portals for the night. Perhaps it is time to train a new librarian. I move more slowly now, despite my efforts to deny age its claims. Lighting and damping lamps would be easier on a young back. And I would not like to leave my books in untrained hands.

****

The stiff scratching of the librarian’s pen ceases. A wrinkled, crooked hand carefully returns the pen to its place. He rises slowly from the ancient oak desk and shuffles patiently through the shelves, gently snuffing the lamps that guard the books. The library is empty, as it is most evenings, so there is no one to chase out. The great door creaks closed, its hinges groaning in sympathy of the old man’s joints.

It is not so easy a job for an old man, remembering where each tome belongs, keeping records, and returning each small chest of knowledge to its particular throne. But it is not a difficult job, if one likes books.

And it is clear that he loves the books. Lifting them gently, one and two at a time to bear them back to the shelves. Even in the dim light from the moon is enough for him to find each book’s place and fill it. Then back to the desk for more, until the small pile is gone and the desk crouches under the massive windows, ready for the next day.

He returns once more to the desk, and checks that the ink he has just laid down is dry. It is not a daily account that he keeps, but one that he began just a month before; a memory to leave of himself, there in the library he lived in. The journal closes, and he places it in the proper drawer with the same care he gives all books.

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Some background info:

The Hapsburgs dominated the Austro-Hungarian Empire. In the early 19^th century, Emperor Francis I died. He was very well liked by the people, often going into the streets without any entourage to talk to the common folk. It was very unusual for a monarch to be so safe without guards. He also regularly held open court, so anyone could bring petitions, or just come see the emperor. His only son, Ferdinand I, was simple, and he had no other children. The family tried to keep the mental condition of the heir a secret.