The Little Book Read Online Free PDF Page B

Tscharner took Wheeler’s hand and shook it vigorously.
    “And Schluessler over there,” Kleist continued, “is our scientist, our Cartesian: he thinks, therefore he is. He is a university student, a genius in physics, rewriting Newton’s laws of the physical world. For him, everything has to be rational.”
    “And you, Herr Kleist?” Karl Claus inquired buoyantly. “How do you describe yourself?”
    “I am the intuitive one,” Kleist said without hesitation. “I guess you’d say the one who jumps to conclusions and is a mortal annoyance to Schluessler and his rationalists because with no apparent reasoning I am more often right than not.”
    Schluessler jumped in. “Annoying, yes, but Herr Kleist and his friends are rewriting the rules of oil and canvas to make the world forget the Parisians. He and his friend Klimt.”
    “Ah,” said von Tscharner the architect, “but he is better than Klimt, for sure.”
    “When this group gets too serious,” Kleist said, “I am the one who adds the leaven to the loaf.” He looked around proudly. “We represent all stations. ” He paused and patted his chest with a broad mocking smile. “We are the Jung Wien , the Young Vienna, you Americans would say.”
    Wheeler stared. These were the sons of the haute bourgeoisie that the Haze had talked so much about, the famous aesthetic offspring of the parvenu industrial giants and bankers, the ascendant liberals of Vienna who had built the Ringstrasse over the past forty years. Raised by their parents in affluence and materialism, surrounded by works of art, music, and literature, these cultured sons shunned the financial world of their forebears and took up the creative and intellectual life. The grandfather was a peddler from Kiev, who thrived after the establishment of the constitutional monarchy in 1848; the father built the business into an industry; and the sons were born into the luxury it created. Those sons grew up in interesting homes, with fascinating houseguests and dinner conversations, surrounded by art. Having very little interest in the business practices of their rich and powerful fathers, for them aesthetics were everything. It was they who made famous the Viennese coffeehouses, and it was from their ranks that emerged the great intellectual and aesthetic movements that so distinguished Vienna at the turn of the century. The Haze himself took enormous pride in having been a latter-day member of this prestigious group, Jung Wien , he also called it.
    “I would be honored to join you during my stay in Vienna,” Wheeler said.
    “I look forward to getting to know you, Mr. Truman.” Ernst Kleist looked back over his shoulder.
    A young man came bursting through the door, as if late for an appointment. “Aha,” said Kleist, “our last member. Here is the one who brings it all together, our glue, our Renaissance man, our multifaceted genius, too eclectic to pin down to any category, if he can remember to join us. Herr Truman,” he said with a flourish, “may I present our philosopher, Herr Egon Wickstein.”
    Wheeler fixed on the young man with wild eyes and rumpled hair, carrying a small leather portfolio overstuffed with papers. “Wickstein?” He stared involuntarily. “That’s Egon Wickstein,” he said without thinking.
    “You know Wickstein?” Kleist said, surprised.
    Wheeler caught himself from bursting out with an are you kidding ? and paused to collect himself. “I know his family,” Wheeler said hastily, struggling to take his eyes away, “very indirectly.”
    “Egon,” Kleist said, “this is my new American friend, Mr. Harry Truman. He knows your family, very indirectly .” The young man looked at him distractedly, awaiting an explanation, and offered his hand. Wheeler took it and found himself staring into the eyes of the most famous philosopher of the twentieth century.
    Wheeler felt a rush of embarrassment. Could he ever explain how he knew this young man, how he would grow up to be