Letter From Austrianby Geoffrey WagnernLife as a Picture PostcardnThe girls are in dirndls. Usually pink,nwith a darker apron and neckerchief andna waist-cinching bodice of black velveteen,nbuttoned up under old-fashionednchests. Puff-sleeves of whitenstarched blouses. They wear this folkloricncostume quite unselfconsciously,nabout their everyday jobs, in bank or supermarketnalike. This is a feminist’snnightmare.nThe apple-cheeked men are in lederhosennor some dark green Knickerbockernequivalent of the same, laced at thenknee and stoutly supported by colorfulngalluses (Brit braces), with a sort ofncrossover martingale strap striving to joinnthem in front and keep that beer in order.nUnder the chestnut trees of thenpark a brass band brays out oompah-pahnStyrian marches while well-behaved, selfpossessednblonde children play beside anriver, its panes of white water happy tonhave escaped the gorges above whosensnowy peaks and glacial streaks looknseverely down on mere man.nBut it’s no good: one can’t writenabout the picture-perfect Salzkammergutnany more than one can photographnit, during one of its mountain villages’nreligious festivals, such as that ofnCorpus Christi. At some point in suchnfestivities everyone takes to the benchesnof the Kurpark to scoff bratwurst andnbeer, the ladies included. Truck driversnand construction workers alike wearnsome tribute to local costume, generallynthe so-called Tyrolean hat, showing itsnvariety of shaving brushes in the band.nHansel-and-Gretel children, entirely unrehearsed,noffer the visitor bunches ofnnarcissi—without the panhandler’s paperncup of New York’s subway “system”n(an oxymoron if ever there was one).nThere are no drugs, there is no inebriation,nthough I am surprised by the numbernof cigarettes dangling from the fingersnof these dirndled maidens andncheery locals.nFor this, folks, is the heart of thenSalzkammergut, echt Austria if you will,nthat bucolic area of astonishing beautynfamiliar to everyone but for the two ornthree human beings on planet Earthnwho didn’t see the Julie Andrews movienThe Sound of Mucous. Happily lodgedn44/CHRONICLESn, at Bad Aussee I watched its festival ofnthe local narcissus flower held at the endnof each May, replete with parades andnprocessions from surrounding villages,nflower floats of great ingenuity (to takento the water on boats at nearbynGrundlsee), marching bands, and,nnatch, a Miss Narcissus-Queen, a localngirl with a smile of riveting wattage.nAbout fifty thousand invaded BadnAussee for the thirty-second such, andnthere wasn’t a scrap of litter to be seennwhen they had left.nWith its manicured meadows andndeep blue waters, those of lake Toplitznsupposedly guarding Nazi gold, this regionnlies to the southeast of Salzburgnand owes its name to the salt mines thatnprovided local employment for centuriesnand can still be visited (the Habsburgnart treasures were sheltered in them innthe last war, as were some of the BritishnNational Gallery’s treasures in a saltnmine in Cheshire). The Salzkammergutnhas always been obstinately independentnand egalitarian, little lakeside Alt Ausseeneven spurning the approaches of HisnApostolic Majesty Franz Joseph I inn1850. The area proudly wore the see ofnKammergut, or crown land, independentnof Mozart’s city (though I saw twonsplendid flower floats dedicated to thencomposer who died in poverty andnseems to be supporting much of Austria’sntourism today). To one from Manhattannthese lovingly tended flowers andnfamilies seem so idyllic as to be caricaturesnacted out. But it is all quite natural,na daily way of life.nApart from neighboring Germans, notntoo many tourists seem to want to penetratenit off-season, at least as far downnas to Bad Aussee and Mittendorf, whereasnSalzburg year-round is inundated withnbus-borne armies that make it impossiblento move around its Innere Stadt atnall, let alone get the feel of its charm. Inhaven’t been to the Louvre lately, butnthe Brueghel room in Vienna’s Kunsthistorischenis a rugger scrum. I am remindednof those days just after the warnwhen, if you knew someone in the Vatican,nyou could see the Sistine ceiling—nalone.nThe countryside in the heart of thenSalzekammergut is by contrast almostntoo good to be true: villages like St.nWolfgang (home of the White HorsenInn), Bad Ischl, Hallstatt, this last withnits glorious lake site yet depressing bonenbin by the upper church; lacking land,nHallstatt apparently buries its dead untilnnnthey are skeletonic, when they are literallynpiled up, one on top of another, in anchurch-side charnel house (no entry fee,nbut contribution accepted). Mostly it’sntimbered inns, Gothic churches (of greatnantiquity), shuttered houses, their handcarvedngingerbread wood balconiesnboxed bright with geraniums (andnplump cats), all decorating the brightngreen meadows and the silent lakesnwhere the immaculate swans keep guard.nFrom the Loser peak high above AltausseenI watched hang gliders taking offnover some of the most sumptuousnscenery in the world.nSo far these have not been spoilt.nModern Austria enjoys a high sophisticationnof appurtenance. Its roads arenthe best in Europe, its drivers the mostndisciplined. The latest technology ofnJapan and the wizardry of nearbynSwitzerland jostle in store windows. Hygiene—asnwitness my own stupefactionnbefore various men’s room gadgetries—nseems at some science-fiction high,nroadside toilets putting to shame thosenin most American doctors’ offices. Supererogatorynhealth is everywhere emphasized.n]oggen is a German verb here.nIt must perhaps be confessed thatncontemporary art of consequence is inconspicuousnin these parts, as also tonsome extent in Vienna. Seven vastntourist buses were lined up when I wentnto see the Hundertwasser attempts, recentlynopened, to convert housing-stylenbuildings into poor paintings (imitatednin Hamburg now). The intellection isnfeeble, and the playful, childlike naturenof the interpretation bounces back fromnthese bleak walls. It is minor “art,” ornarchitecture.nNot so the well mounted Kokoschkanexhibition in the Freyung, not far fromnSt. Stephen’s square, now so well preservednfrom automobile traffic. I leftnthe Belvedere in sunshine and in mobs,nall doubtless to be yelled at in front ofnthe incomparable Klimts, and Schieles,nto find very few interested in “O.K.,” asnhe liked to sign himself. I have nevernliked him as a painter, seeing him as thensource of someone like de Kooning whonsimply tore him up and made him asnugly as possible; but I admired him as anman (bayoneted in the trenches, afternall, then blown up by a grenade). Thisnnew Sammlung opened my eyes. O.K.ndoes not do well in reproduction, hisnfiery vision being ironed out flat. Besides,nhe could draw.nIf Vienna was its usual handsome self,n