The Czechoslovakian Count

count.jpgThe Count was upset about the Italian woman. He had only agreed to be nice, but this was getting out of hand. It was bad enough that the officials at the Hotel had shown him to the servant’s quarters and delivered his chauffeur to a palatial suite of rooms, but now they were stopped by the side of the road, and his servant was obviously making love to this impossibly short woman at the road side cafe. When they returned to Uherské Hradiste he would discipline his chauffeur. Something had to be done about all of this, and the sooner the better. The very idea of his man servant being confused with his royal highness was downright absurd.

The Count had always been a very short, and ugly little man. In his uniform he looked official at best. If he could keep himself in good posture and with a calm disposition then he was presentable. Despite his scowling, and general refusal to acknowledge anyone he had not been formally introduced to, the Count considered himself to be kind hearted. If he was not a man of the people, then at least he was a man who cared deeply about the people. He had tirelessly devoted his life to his position. Yet somehow love had eluded him entirely.

Not even the arrangements made by his parents, nor the Court of the Empire had managed to pair him with a suitable mate. He blamed his father, Nicolaus Ludwig von Zinzendorf, for being barely 4′ 8″ tall, who’s sexual exploits had shamed his mother, and defamed his ambitions. He refused to accept the burden himself. It was true that he may be somewhat unpleasant, but that accounted only for his public life, and he felt quite certain that in a decent society even the slightest of his gestures might prevail and demonstrate a finer temperament, and might in some way procure at least a single vote of confidence or affection from a suitable partner. While this theory did not appear to be true in any way, the Count relied upon it entirely, and had pinned all of his hopes securely to it.

He was particularly vexed at his chauffeur. His very tall, and stately chauffeur. Even this tiny little woman, which he had so charitably agreed to transport through the Austro-HungarianEmpire to the safety of Czechoslovakia had begun to bat her eyelashes and steal horrible little peeks at his driver of all people. This bizarre little washer woman who’s delicate curls danced so playfully behind her ears, who’s impossibly huge skirts gave her the appearance of an ostrich was unimpressed. This Italian, with her laughable hips, whos tiny little head and waist floated like a neck extended atop of a tent of skirt, batted her eyelashes for this giant of a driver. Her eyes had never once looked up to meet his, the Count of an Empire. Nothing was stolen from him save the opportunity itself. He was vexed indeed.

His driver would most certainly be fired the very moment they arrived. It went without saying. What sort of comedy was this? Life had turned out to be totally ridiculous, and completely unfair.