Colourful Austria [antikvár]

THE WORLD OF THE AUSTRIAN Austria is a small country. Showing it in a pocket-sized Atlas is a cartographer's nightmare; and driving across it at its narrowest point takes the motorist little longer than he needs to do justice to a substantial packed lunch. The tourist who joins the East-bound express on the shores of Laké Constance will easily be in Vienna by sundown. That's how small Austria is. Austria, a name not infrequently confused with Australia in the world at large, is the home of somé 7 millión people, an insignificant fraction of the world's totál population of 2Y2 milliards. Yet to be born one of those 7 millión can be accounted a stroke of luck, especially if in the course of one's life one attains the status of a "professional" Austrian. It means making few enemies in the world, and so being able to devote one's energies to coping with one's friends, which is an extremely comforting thought. Peace and Quiet, those twin gifts of the gods which nowadays the hustler nips in the bud at the dawn of each hectic day, still reign in Austria: but they are not something you can buy, hygienically packed, in a chemist's shop; they are part and parcel of a hereditary way of life that characterises and distinguishes the professional Austrian, a man to whom anything that smacks of disturbance or upheaval-such as philosophers with high-flown ideas about making the world a better place-is equally abhorrent. From the first he regards all such ideas with the greatest suspicion and loses no time in adapting them to his own requirements, in smoothing over the rough edges, damping down over-exuberance, and setting reasonable limits to extravagance. Which is why dangerous "isms" cut less ice in Austria than elsewhere; why even radicals never tear up the tree roots and all; why pestilences that corrupt the mind, and threats of force, are for the most part innocuous; why the skyscrapers in Austria are stunted, the caprices of fashion less outrageous, and the social contrasts less glaring than in somé other countries. And the Austrian knows how to make even dictatorship tolerable and humane. The professional Austrian is a past-master in the art of adjustment; and the adjustment of contradictions makes for tolerance. He tolerates the next-door neighbour without making a fuss about it, and leaves him to his quaint beliefs, his delusions, his prejudices, and his errors. In Austria tolerance is as precious as a good drop of wine: in fact, in the country you can even find inn-signs with the unusual inscription "Zur Toleranz." And it would need the patience and persistence of a Diogenes to find among the 7 millión citizens of this small country anyone ostentatious enough to fiaunt his political convictions in the form of a badge. The Austrian prefers to decorate his hat wich a chamois-brush, with a souvenir of the last shoot or of the last Kandahar ski-race. Yet he is well aware that in theory the first person he runs across in the Street is almost certain to cherish political beliefs diametrically opposed to his own, for the two parties that determine the Austrian political climate are almost equal in strength, which means that everything has to be nicely balanced: equilibrium on the fence must be preserved at all costs. Normally, this too makes for peace and quiet; but what happens when for once a definite decision has to be made, yes or no? The professional Austrian is an adept at extricating himself from such an uncouth situation, and if the worst comes to the worst and he has to choose one of two alternatives, he will choose-the third. Another victory for compromise, another triumph of adjustment. But this is an Austrian patent, and not very suitable for export.