The Secrets Old Men Keep
***
Some background information:
The Hapsburgs dominated the Austro-Hungarian Empire. In the early 19th 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. The family tried to keep the mental condition of the heir a secret. The greatest power in the hugely bureaucratic government, especially after Francis’ death, was Francis’ brother, Prince Metternich, High Chancellor of the Empire. It was a time when the old monarchies feared that the violent revolutions of France would spread to their own countries. The conservative traditionalists reacted strongly to any sign of revolt, stifling the press and any sign of dissent.
***
13 Nov, 1935
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.
M.
The stiff scratching of the librarian’s pen ceased. A wrinkled, crooked hand carefully returned the pen to its place. He rose slowly from the ancient oak desk and shuffled patiently through the shelves, gently snuffing the lamps that guard the books. The library was empty, as it was most evenings, so there was no one to chase out. The great door creaked closed, its hinges groaning in sympathy of the old man’s joints.
It was not so easy a job for an old man, remembering where each tome belonged, keeping records, and returning each small chest of knowledge to its particular throne. But it was not a difficult job, if one liked books.
And it was clear that he loved 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 was enough for him to find each book’s place and fill it. Then back to the desk for more, until the small pile was gone and the desk crouched under the massive windows, ready for the next day.
He returned once more to the desk, and checked that the ink he had just laid down was dry. It was not a daily account that he kept, but one that he began years and many journals before; a memory to leave of himself and what he learned, there in the library he lived in. A place for thoughts and important happenings. The journal closed, and he placed it in the proper drawer with the same care he gave all books.
***
14 Nov, 1935
I received an unexpected visitor last night, just as I was heading to my room to retire. I had reached the small entrance by the fireplace, it opened rather suddenly – I admit to being quite startled. I had thought no one… – but it was Prince Metternich, and I suppose the head of intelligence would know about a simple hidden door. Perhaps his brother told him before he died. He was quite polite, and did not comment on my rather undignified reaction, merely picked up my dropped candle and relit it for me from his own.
It made me a bit nervous, having him here. It was nice to have company again, but the Prince, he is not always so understanding about books. There are many empty places on the Library’s shelves now, because of him and his censorship. He stayed until well after four in the morning, and I sat at my desk, notating my biography of the Emperor’s great-grandfather. Just a few more visits as long, and I may be ready to publish! Whatever people may say about the Chancellor’s policies, never have I heard anyone deny that he works hard for the Empire.
Today I will perhaps speak to the Head of Household about getting an assistant. Ah, but my joints do ache this morning, and autumn has hardly touched the trees. I do not think I can linger for a midnight visitor as easily as I once did. Yes, I will see about an assistant today.
And I cannot help but wonder what other secrets about the Library the Prince knows.
M.
The Librarian rose from his desk, hobbling over to the table in the back left corner. It was next to the shelf of census records, and it was not the location that the old King had preferred. The only signs that there had been a late night visitor were a few books on the table and an empty teacup. He picked up the books, examining their titles. Censorship laws from recent years. Restrictions on printing newspapers and pamphlets. He moved blindly to the shelves, placing each tome in its place.
“It seems that the Department of the Interior will be tightening its hold on the literary world once more.” He spoke to himself and to the books. “’To prevent revolution’, they say, ‘to prevent another Napoleon.’ I do not see how such a stranglehold will prevent revolt.” A sigh. “But it is not wise to say such things.” The silent empty places in the bookshelves agreed.
***
That night, the old man sat working at his desk, compiling a report that the Department of the Census had requested. Behind him, the secret door swung quietly open. He did not seem to notice at first, absorbed by the treasures buried in the time before him. The Librarian was becoming familiar with his visitor. He looked up as the Chancellor passed his desk.
“Good evening, my lord,” he said.
“If it is still early enough to be called evening,” the Chancellor mused, humor crinkling the tired circles under his eyes, “then a good evening to you as well, Matthias.”
“I was about to put on a pot of tea. Would you care for a cup?”
“Please.” The Prince smiled his politician’s smile.
The librarian rose to do so, carefully setting the water to boil while the Chancellor made his way through the shelves to his favored table. When Matthias brought the steaming cups back to the corner, Metternich thanked him, and inquired, “but it is quite late. Do you always stay so long? I would not want you to stay on my account.”
The old librarian regarded the Chancellor’s own white hair and replied with some humor, “I am not so much older than you, my lord, that it is too late for me to work when you stay late yourself.” A touch of reprimand hummed beneath the gentle tone. Metternich toasted him with a smile more sincere than his last had been.
“I stand rebuked. But surely your assistant could stay to attend late visitors?”
“I have only recently begun to feel my age. This is not a terribly strenuous position for the body, and my mind is sharp as it ever was. I placed a request for an assistant with the Head of Household just this morning. But why are you here so late, my lord? Surely,” the old man’s eyes twinkled, “you have assistants aplenty to stay awake all hours of the night?”
“Perhaps, yes, but -,” the Prince paused, waving for Matthias to take a seat in the empty chair, “- but some matters require my own attention.”
The librarian hesitated before replying. “But I had not thought that there were any significant movements at the moment. Even my more radical acquaintances at the University admit that the students and revolutionaries are still subdued after His Highness’ death.”
“It is a constant battle,” the Chancellor declared firmly. “The revolutionaries have merely retreated underground for a time. We cannot afford to become complacent.”
“Yes, they seem to be waiting to see what our new Emperor will do. It is strange,” Matthias mused, “to have such quiet for six months. From both the revolutionary forces and the King. Not that it is my place to judge his actions,” he quickly added.
Metternich waved it away with a wry smile. “You were an a first name standing with my brother, I know. Please, speak your mind. He valued your company greatly.” The smile turned a touch wistful. “He encouraged me to work here on late nights. ‘Few persons have such a firm grasp of both sides of this new age,’ he said, ‘or such good tea.’” He sipped again from his cup. “I must agree with my brother’s opinion.”
“Thank you.” They sat under the quiet watch of the Census and Law records until their tea was gone. Then Matthias rose, taking the cups, and left the Chancellor to his work.
***
The next morning, the early sun streamed cool and crisp through the tall eastern windows, catching sharply on gilt titles here and there. Shortly after Matthias opened the main door, a tall, upright man entered the library. He had not been there before, and he eyed the books with a displeased air, trying to find fault in the dustless shelves. He clicked his heels against the floor briskly, straight up to the librarian’s desk.
“Good day. I am Johan Kolowratt. I’m here representing the Censorship on orders from Chancellor Metternich. You are Matthias, I presume?” A hand appeared in front of the old man.
“Yes. Matthias Schäfer,” he said, taking the offered hand in his frail one. “So, I meet the new censor officer at last. How may I be of assistance?”
“It has come to the Censor’s attention that although we have been quite thorough in preventing new subversive texts, there still exist many that we passed over originally for being already quite old. The writings of such men as John Locke, for example. We are now beginning to rectify this grievous error before it endangers both our Great Emperor and the Holy Empire.”
It was all very civilized. Johan told the librarian what he needed, adding that another man would be down to do a cursory check to ensure that there were no unlisted books on the shelves (a mere formality, he was sure, but a necessary one). And as soon as the old man was able to shuffle over to the large cabinet of indexes, the efficient man and his assistants had taken them out and away to be torn apart, analyzed, and copied.
Later that afternoon, they returned the indexes, and also gave him a list of the books the Censor wished removed from public use. “I will return in a week for them. Here is a box,” Johan waved over his shoulder, where some men were bringing in a crate, “to place them in.” He hesitated, taking in the sparse white hair and twisted arthritic joints. “Shall I send up one of our assistants to aid you?”
“No. No, thank you. That won’t be necessary.”
The efficient man gave a sharp, satisfied nod, and turned to go.
“Wait.” The librarian stopped him partway through his turn.
“Yes?”
“What will happen to these books? The ones you’re taking?”
“They will be placed in the attics at the censorship, to await a time when they are either considered less dangerous or it is deemed necessary to permanently rid ourselves of them. The Censor does not wish to needlessly destroy the King’s books. It would be quite costly to replace them.” He smiled as he lied.
“I see. Thank you.”
And the man left.
The librarian stared at the list the Censor had left. The books on the shelves pressed inwards toward him, anxious to know whose knowledge was to be removed this time. He was impassive, regarding the note like a man who had at last received bad news that he had suspected for a long while. Stony, accepting.
He turned it facedown to the desk and proceeded to ignore it for the remainder of the afternoon. An oppressive stillness pervaded the library. The few patrons that came to peruse the shelves did not linger. The old man’s eyes seemed to catch and linger on the empty places in the shelves, holes made the last time a Censor official called upon him.
When night fell, the old man went to the door, and carefully but no more quickly than was his habit sealed the great portal against visitors. He began making rounds through the stacks, dragging each marked tome to his desk, shoulders bowed with the weight of a great decision.
The crate squatted by the fire, maw stretched wide open, eager to be fed.
When each of the required titles was removed from the shelves, Matthias paused, listening to the stillness. Only the cackling of the fire broke the library’s sacred calm. He was alone with the books.
Then, as swiftly as an old man might, he went to the fire place. Drawing a key from his pocket, he revealed a second door, this one to the left of the flames, opposite his secret entrance. It grumbled and squeaked, protesting the movement. The noise only made the old man’s movements more nervous, and when it was opened just wide enough for his bent form to squeeze through, he rushed back to the books.
While the silent rows of texts stood guard, the librarian rushed the books, five, six at a time through the door, shoving them haphazardly onto the already bursting shelf revealed therein. His usual care was abandoned, for safety and secrecy was his only concern. But as much as he rushed, he still only seemed to crawl. He was too old, too slow, to do this again and again as he had in his younger years.
Minutes passed. Time ran hard at his heels.
At last the desk was cleared, and the old Librarian locked the secret room away, tucking the key back into his pocket. He stilled and drooped, tired by his exertions. But he could only rest a moment. The empty box sat large and hungry, angry at being deprived of its sacrifice.
Matthias stirred again. With pained, practiced movements, he stacked logs meant for the fire into the crate, filling it. More seconds, more time, until the heavy lid slammed home.
The door to the right of the fire slid open, and the High Chancellor stepped through. His eyes flicked to the crate, recognition passing through his eyes. Matthias faced Metternich across the fire, the slam echoing between them.
“Good evening, Chancellor.” Matthias said at last.
“And to you,” the politician replied. But the tension did not dissipate. Metternich walked stiffly to his usual seat, enthroning himself beneath the Laws and Provisions he held so dear. Many had been written by his own hand through the years, to hold the empire against those revolutionaries and radicals that sought to take and change his country.
The Library was quiet, its new wounds gaping and obvious holes, sucking in the light of the lamps.
The Librarian sat at his desk, a quiet and experienced guardian of knowledge.
15 Nov 1835
I have packed away the Censorship’s latest demands. I must admit that I do not understand how disposing of books, some over a hundred years in print already, will curb this younger generation of radial reformists. Actions like this by the censorship serve only to provoke more conservative intellectuals.
Ah, I am too angry to write much this night. I must admit, the Chancellor’s visit is not as pleasing to me this night as I normally find it. Tomorrow I will find humor in the irony of the Head of the Censor seeking peace here in my Library. But tonight, the thought is not so diverting as it usually is.
M.
***
Precisely a week later, a pair of men came to the Library to take away the crate. They did not seem to find anything unusual about it, and, under the watchful eye of the Librarian, removed the offending object with the same efficiency with which it had been placed there.
Three young men, a tall, a middling, and a dark, approached the door from the side, pausing to allow the box to pass before cautiously entering the library. They had never been to this library before.
The middling one raised a knuckle to deliver a firm announcement of their presence as they passed through the frame. “Come in, come in,” a quiet voice called. They walked a tad stiffly, over cautious and proud, in their desire to make a good impression. From his desk, the librarian watched their approach.
One was a yellow haired giant. Lanky limbs and long fingers accentuated his tall frame, and sleeves and pants that did not quite reach as far as they should stretched the illusion further. He would not need a ladder to reach even the highest shelves in the library.
The one who had knocked walked with a confident step, just slightly ahead of his companions, and he eyed the shelves with an air of calculated interest. He was expectant and dressed a fair bit better than his peers.
The last, the dark one, was clearly of Slavic descent, a sharp contrast to his German-blond fellows. He regarded the empty slots in the shelves with satisfied interest.
By the time they reached the desk, the librarian seemed just a touch less welcoming than he might normally be. “May I be of assistance?” he asked.
“Good day sir,” the middling one replied before the others opened their mouths. “Might you be Librarian Schäfer?”
“Yes, but Matthias is fine, lad.”
This informality unbalance the young man a bit, but he quickly regained his footing. “Ah. Yes, well, we have been sent as prospective candidates for the position of Assistant Librarian.”
“Sent?” This puzzled the old man. “By whom?”
“The Head of the Household informed the Censor of your need for a qualified assistant.”
“And they sent all three of you? At the same time?” Matthias shook his head. “Very odd.”
“We each have specialized in different areas.” Their self-appointed spokesman replied. “The Head of Household said that you were not specific as to your needs.”
The old man huffed. “What is there to specify? You can read? Write?” The young men nodded hesitantly when he paused for their answers. “Then you are qualified. It is merely a matter of whether you want to work in the library. In truth, I had expected to use my contacts at the University to find an eager graduate, not have the Censor send me researchers.”
“I see.” The spokesman was rather perplexed. “The Household was quite certain you had requested that they find an assistant. A mere misunderstanding, I’m sure.”
“Indeed, indeed,” Matthias chuckled. “It is surely not a common request, for I was the last assistant for the Library, and it has been more years than I care to count since that particular request was made. Ah well. Really, it is merely a matter of finding someone who would enjoy the work.”
The giant spoke up hesitantly, “What duties would this position require of us?”
“Hah. An intelligent question. Here,” the old man grunted, gaining his feet painfully, “Allow me to give you a tour.” The stiff stances of the men relaxed as the Librarian took them through the stacks, explaining chores they would need to perform to keep the library in working order, and other tasks such as compiling records and writing reports. The librarian’s sharp eyes caught each reaction to the explanation.
He took them around the main stacks, and then through a door to the larger archives, where most patrons were not permitted.
By the time they returned to the old man’s desk, he seemed to have put them quite at ease. “That is all for now, I believe. Feel free to return to your current duties,” Matthias told them. “I will contact the Censorship when I have made a decision.” They left quickly, and the old man settled into his seat with a sigh. Leaning back, he thought out loud, “Such stiff boys. They will do well at the censorship.” A chuckle. “Goodness. I don’t believe I ever got their names.”
Just as he was beginning to settle back into his seat, another young man rushed into the library, walking so quickly that it was nearly improper. He honed in immediately on the librarian, his neat eager steps bringing him straightly and quickly to the desk.
“Good day sir.” He thrust out his hand. “I’m Josef Richter. I’m here about the position.”
Matthias, surprised by his sudden appearance, could only blink at him.
***
His sigh echoed of constant pain, exacerbated by the storm outside. But the books swallowed up the sound before it could echo through the empty hall, softening it. Though his face bore the lines of many years, his eyes were clear and not weary. The librarian looked across his dominion of tomes, at last set to rights, and picked up his pen.
22 Nov, 1935
Today I was presented with three candidates for my assistantship, and must admit that I suspect Chancellor Metternich’s hand in this. Never has a request been pushed through the bureaucracy of the Household in a mere week. The candidates were each well qualified, and had a wide range of knowledge both in the areas of Law and History. I did not insult them by asking for writing samples to prove the quality of their penmanship, for they were all employed by the censorship department, and would have been required to meet strict standards to be hired there. I suspect that they would even be able to imitate even my hand, given examples to follow.
And yet, none of them seemed to quite fit with the library. Blame it on an old man’s quirks, but censorship seems to make men regard books almost as prey, not the art they are meant to be.
Shortly after those first three left, a fourth young man came, of the name Josef, claiming to have heard that I needed help. He has potential, though I do not know if I can put up with his odd ideas. As well, I think there is such a thing as too much energy. While I was showing him around the library, he began waxing poetic about a new method of ordering the shelves, and suddenly got the idea in his head that I needed a physical demonstration!
He started running about spouting some nonsense about arranging the books by a numerical system, pulling books from shelves to demonstrate how they are ‘related.’ It was completely ridiculous. This library has been ordered in the classical manner for nearly its entire existence, and never has there been any complaint. It took me nearly an hour to put things in their proper order once Josef finally left!
I must pause now, for it seems I have another visitor. A man, and not here for the job or the library, I should think. What an uncommonly busy day!
M.
The shelves breathed in the flickering lamplights, shadows blowing in and out. Clumbering steps from the hall echoed between the books. A man sidled up to the doorway, peering around the corner. He almost didn’t enter, but whatever was in the hallway was worse even than books. Jaw set, he slid into the room with a glance backwards. The wind whined outside, and seemed to spook him even more as he went further into the rows. He edged heavily through the aisles, wary as a colt without its mother, and just as awkward. He did not glance at titles, nor did a flash of gilt seem to catch his eye. In and in the man came, until his thunking brought him at last out of the stacks to loom over the old librarian.
Only then did the Librarian look up from his work. As he took in the younger man’s face, his eyes tried to flicker with recognition, but his furrowed brow decided that there was something off, something too large in the forehead and too jutting in the jaw.
“Are you lost?”Matthias asked kindly.
The man thought about it for a moment, and then shook his head furiously. “No!” came the answer, a child with a man’s whine.
“Oh. May I help you find something, then?”
This confounded the simple creature’s mind, and so he cast wildly about, until at last his eyes landed on the far wall, where the drapes were pulled over the window to ward off the draft of the storm. A thick finger of triumph swung up to point at those closed portals. “Windows.” He looked expectantly at the old man then, finger still hovering at those portals.
“Very well,” the old man. “Just one moment.” Matthias carefully set down the rest of his thought, then put his pen away. He laboriously rose, and pushed off from his desk to begin the long shuffle down to the windows.
The man hovered anxiously at his shoulder, worrying at the librarian’s slowness. This seemed to amuse Matthias, but there was a sad edge in his eyes. “We will get there, do not fear. Sometimes I think I should use that cane Francis left for me. But then,” he chuckled reaching for the first drape pull, “I think the weight of it would be more of a hindrance than the cane could make up for.” He tugged, and with a whoosh, the curtains peeled back to reveal the storm outside. He looked at the childlike man, with the protruding jaw and strange forehead, glittering eyes transfixed by droplets running down the wavy glass. “And what is your name, lab?” curiosity overtaking him at last.
The halfwit ignored him, instead stepping closer to press his nose and hands to the cold panes, eyes wide with awe.
Again, that gentle smile tugged at the librarian’s lips. “Would that we all still held such wonder for simple rain. Perhaps then we would be troubled only by aching joints.” He then began making fastidious rounds through the books, carefully trimming wicks and filling nearly lamps. Sometimes he would straighten a book.
Eventually he stepped out from the massive shelves and made his way to a small corner behind his great desk . Here, on a small low set of shelves, was his personal collection. He bent down, painfully slowly, reaching down past books from his school days, and theses his friends had written, down even beyond foreign texts in languages most men could not decipher, reaching until his fingers could grasp just the very of a dark leather corner. But the hand hesitated, and instead chose the tome immediately to the left. It tipped out slowly with a whisper of farewell to its companions, reluctant to awaken after forty so long years. He carried it up to his nose, and turned through the pages. “Hmmm…. Yes. I should have seen that sooner.” His feet carried him automatically back to his desk, where he placed the book down with old knowing hands.
The white head turned once more to the window, and knees and feet followed. They brought him once more to his guest who stood tracing lines in the ghosts his breath left on the glass.
“What is your name?”
This time the halfwit turned to stare at him. The librarian repeated his question his question a third time, and after a brow harrowing moment, the mouth opened and pronounced “Ferd’and.”
“It is nice to meet you, Ferdinand. I am Matthias.” But Ferdinand’s attention had wandered back to the shapes he found in the glass.
The rain continued to rattle the glass at Matthias returned to his desk and wrote a short note in his careful hand. He sealed it, and then shuffled to the door to call a servant. When the Prince rushed in, he found the old Librarian at his desk once more, watching the fire as ink dried in his pen.
No words were spoken between them as Matthias pointed the two large nurses toward the window. Metternich stayed even after their calm, coaxing voices had long faded from the shelves. Smudged grey turned into true evening darkness in the window, and at last the dead king’s brother spoke, “I will not bore you with the justifications the family gave the court. You understand why?”
The old Librarian raised a creaking bony hand to calm him. “I had heard rumors.” The voice came from the hollow of the large chair, heavy with knowledge of the library and history. “And I will not add to them.”
Metternich looked at him shrewdly, weighing a heavy decision behind his eyes. After a few moments filled only with the silence of the books, he spoke, “You keep many secrets.” He pointedly looked just to the side of the fireplace, and Matthias followed his glance. “And you may keep your secrets, if you keep this one as well.” He turned to go, but paused. “I believe you would get on well with Josef. He holds similar views on books.”
Then, not waiting for a reply, the chancellor nodded to him, and left.
“I did not agree to keep your secret,” Matthias told Metternich, who was no longer there, “but no one will learn of this first from me.”
“After all,” Matthias continued to the silent stands of books, “I did not bother to read the last librarian’s journals until I was very old. I am certain my replacement will be the same.” This amused him somewhat, and he returned to the journal at his desk, abandoned hours earlier. Ancient fingers grasped their pen, and words slowly made their stiff and creaking way across the page once more. The book the Librarian had taken from the corner shelf rested heavily by his knobby elbow, and the steady light of the lamp picked out some familiar spidery letters, put down more than forty years prior by a younger hand:
19 April 1793
His Highness King Francis’ first child is a son, christened Ferdinand I. All those who hope for peaceful successions in these turbulent times will breathe more easily tonight. But I fear this excellent news is tempered by a slightly troubling visit I received but a few moments ago. The good Doctor Rudolph, a friend of mine from University, attended the birthing. He has confided in me that ill health is a grave possibility for this child. The young prince has a strangely misshapen head. But I do not think it necessary to overmuch worry. Such physical problems are common amongst the great families. And indeed, his parents were quite closely related: he has but four great-grandparents, where most have eight.
M.
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