Current status: respectful tolerance.
Austria pored over messy charts and opened letters in his study. It was the usual – he put together a budget that would cover finances for the next several months. Sometimes he would stare at the charts for afternoons. He would swipe out a piece of parchment when he decided something and feverishly dab ink onto the paper, writing numbers, sentences, or letters to advisors in Vienna.
Today he considered a proposed project to renovate some government buildings, his eyes darting left and right over information presented to him. He was in the midst of reading when –
CLUNK – CLUNK – clunk – clunk – from the kitchen.
Austria jumped out of his chair, flinging his pen. Ink spilled in a smooth dark line across the paper. He hurried downstairs to the kitchen, where he confronted chaos. Italy had been washing the dishes, and Austria had told her that she could go out and play as soon as she was finished. As a result, she proceeded at top speed, and in her haste, she accidentally knocked over the once-neat stack of freshly cleaned plates. They spilled out over the floor, some of them maybe (God forbid) cracked. Italy's face was red with embarrassment at having been caught. She quickly tried to cover up the mess, picking up and trying to organize the slippery plates, and only worsened the mess as the clink of dropped plates rolled about the kitchen.
Austria sighed heavily and bent down to fix the clutter.
Current status: perpetual annoyance.
When Austria discovered it, he felt frozen in a state of shock and anger.
The portrait was the work of the painter Mr. Tobias Morel. It was ordered 25 years ago when Austriahad felt the desire to get a portrait done, and it had cost a great deal of money. Any wealthy citizen ought to have one at some point and Mr. Morel was a notable artist – his work was fine, precise, and elegant. The man had since retired to France, where his family was from.
Now that money was lost to a large mustache carefully placed on the painted Austria's face by the brush strokes of a small hand.
Austria felt as though he could yell his voice hoarse and promptly ordered Italy to sweep out the chimney.
Current status: intense frustration.
Austria always took out such frustration in the form of one of Chopin's highly honored works. He would have been slamming his hands on the keys of the piano had he not worried about distorting the elegance of the music. His fingers maneuvered easily through the piece, Etude Op. 10, No. 2. The large room was filled with the rich sounds and echoes of the piano, and Austria, with furrowed brows and tightened muscles in his chin, executed the last few notes.
The piece was finished, but there was still anger in his mind. He looked up to put away the sheet of music and saw Italy's face. She was holding the door to the piano room open just a sliver, and she poked her head out that tiny sliver so that Austria could see half her face.
She should be doing her chores.
"Italy."
She retreated and tried to close the door, startled at having been caught again.
"Wait!" the door stopped closing. "Italy, did you like the music?" Austria said slowly.
A pause, then a meek "Yes."
"Italy, come over here." Austria moved to the left of the piano bench, motioning for Italy to come sit to his right. She hesitated and then tiptoed to the piano. Austria helped her up to the bench and she stared at the keys in wonder, appearing intensely happy.
Austria played a light minuet. It was an easy piece, Minuet in G by Bach. His fingers glided and sometimes hopped over the keys, measuring out perfect staccatos, in the places where they needed to be. The melody was light and happy, and Italy clapped her hands in delight.
"Play it again!" Italy laughed.
Again, and then a third time. Italy sang along with the melody, a string of Da-da-da's. She carefully slid off the piano bench and twirled around in the room, with no apparent aim or direction, still singing and laughing.
Austria couldn't help but smile too. This was better than any angry Chopin.
Current status: happiness.