A Fatal Waltz lem-3

by Tasha Alexander

  I had never seen her in person, but when we were girls, Ivy had a postcard that pictured her, and we’d lamented that our own queen was not nearly so lovely. Empress Elisabeth was a vision of royal perfection: a fairy tale. But the woman who greeted Cécile and me after we’d been settled into a formal salon in the Amalienhof bore little resemblance to the figure from the postcard.

  “My darling Cécile, I have so longed for you.” She was shockingly thin and swathed from head to toe in black, still mourning the loss of her son, Rudolf, whose death at the imperial hunting lodge at Mayerling had shocked the Austrian nation.

  “You should have sent for me sooner. I am distressed to find you in such a condition.”

  “Don’t scold me. I can’t bear it. Things are more dreadful here than ever. I don’t know why I ever come back to Vienna. I wish we were still girls, playing in the Alps.”

  “How are the horses?” Cécile asked, and the empress’s face brightened at once. They embarked on a spirited discussion of the animals (one of whom was called Nihilist, an excellent name) that lasted nearly a quarter of an hour, neither of them paying me the slightest attention. At last, Sissi sighed and looked at me with eyes void of energy.

  “Perhaps you would like to read so Cécile and I do not bore you with tales of our squandered youths.” She waved a slim hand in the direction of a desk in the far corner of the room. “I’ve all sorts of books. Take whatever you’d like.”

  “Thank you,” I said. The books piled in neat stacks on the desk caught my interest at once: two volumes of Greek mythology, a copy of Plato’s Republic, six volumes of rather sensational poetry, and a copy of the Odyssey in the original Greek. The empress was no vapid royal. I flipped through the poetry first, assuming I would not be spending much time reading.

  I underestimated how much Sissi had to say to Cécile.

  Three-quarters of an hour later, I had come to the conclusion that I’d always underrated the Romantic poets. I was just about to pick up The Republic when the conversation on the opposite end of the room grew louder. By louder, I mean slightly less inaudible than it had been. I couldn’t understand much of what was being said beyond the word “Mayerling,” and that caught my attention not only because it was a topic Cécile had warned me to avoid, but also because it was also written on a letter that was sitting on the desk.

  I—like everyone else in Europe—had read the story of Crown Prince’s Rudolf’s death nearly three years earlier. It was originally reported that he’d died of heart failure, but rumors of a very different ending were rampant. His mistress, young Mary Vestera, had died the same night, and although the young lady’s name was not mentioned in any papers in Austria, the news I had read in London was full of stories of a lovers’ suicide pact.

  Ordinarily, I would not dream of reading someone else’s correspondence, but I found myself leaning forward across the desk, straining to make out the words of the letter while keeping an uneasy eye on Cécile and the empress. I did not want to pick up the letter and risk being caught doing the literary equivalent of eavesdropping. In it, someone was reporting to Sissi that there had been many shots fired at the hunting lodge the night Rudolf died. Trailing at the bottom of the page was the beginning of an intriguing sentence about the motivations of the French and their English compatriots. I longed to turn it over to read the rest, but was not bold enough. What had the French or English to do with Mayerling?

  “We’ve ignored you long enough,” Cécile said. “Rejoin us. Kallista is a kindred spirit to you, Sissi. She studies Greek and spends much of her time on Santorini.”

  “You are a fortunate girl,” the empress said. “I’ve a castle on Corfu. If I were wise, I’d never venture from its safety.”

  “Surely you’re safe in Vienna.” I sat on a chair across from them.

  “No one is safe in Vienna.”

  I believed her when she said this and agreed even more strongly when, after we left the palace, I saw Mr. Harrison standing across the street, watching our carriage as it pulled away.

  “They’re a lively group,” I said as Viktor placed in front of me a cup of hot chocolate mounded with whipped cream. A crowd of gentlemen were passing a stack of loose papers around a table across the room from me, taking turns reading with mock dramatic emphasis, erupting into frequent laughter.

  “Junges Wien,” the waiter said. “Young Vienna.”

  “Avant-garde writers, all of them,” Friedrich said. “They practically live here.”

  “The young one—sitting on the far right—has already started publishing poems. I don’t think he’s yet eighteen,” Viktor said. “Hugo von Hofmannsthal.”

  “I’d love to read them,” I said. He bowed and disappeared, not responding. I opened a newspaper.

  “Hugo von Hofmannsthal is a remarkable talent,” Friedrich said, picking up his sketchbook and setting to work drawing a woman who was sitting at the table next to us, wearing a bonnet of astonishing height. “He’s sure to be an enormous success. If I didn’t like him so much, I’d have to hate him.”

  We passed a content half hour. “Do you know this man?” I asked, showing Friedrich a letter to the editor written by Gustav Schröder, whom I suspected at once was the Schröder mentioned to me by Robert. The piece was well written and articulate; if one were debating whether to embrace the principles of anarchy, Herr Schröder’s piece would serve as a deft push towards his side. I was shocked that his views could sound so reasonable.

  “Ja,” he said. “I know Schröder.”

  “Does he come here often?”

  “To the Griendsteidl? Nein.” Friedrich slouched in his chair across from me. “Are you a budding anarchist?”

  “Far from it,” I said.

  “No. A person in your position would hardly want to lose her status.”

  “A person in my position?” I flung the paper onto the table. “What, precisely, do you think my position is?”

  “Your wealth affords you a great deal of freedom.”

  “Yes, it does.” I met his stare.

  “And you suffer not from the inconvenience of having to work to support yourself.”

  “Granted. But my financial situation does not liberate me from the bonds that restrict a woman’s activities.”

  “You’ve far more liberty than the poorer members of your sex.”

  “Do I? Or is my prison merely more comfortable?”

  “No. You’ve infinitely more opportunity. You can travel, pursue an education, socialize with whomever you please.”

  “So long as I don’t go too far from the bounds of what is generally acceptable to my peers.”

  “And if you went too far? And they ostracized you? You could retreat into your luxurious cocoon and continue to amuse yourself however you wished. I grant you that a woman who measures her self-worth through the eyes of her equals is held captive by society. But you, I think, are not such a woman. You do not crave acceptance, so rejection would not be disaster.”

  “Are you an anarchist?”

  “No.” He opened his sketchbook and passed it to me. “This is Schröder.”

  The face that stared out at me was a hard one, all scowls and lines.

  “How can I meet him?” I asked.

  “It’s unlikely that he’d come to you at the Imperial,” he said, stirring his coffee.

  “I’ll meet him wherever he likes. Can you put me in touch with him?”

  “I’ll see what I can arrange and let you know tomorrow.”

  “Thank you.”

  Friedrich sighed and sunk farther down in his chair.

  “What’s the matter? You don’t approve of my frolicking with anarchists?”

  “Anarchists do not frolic.”

  I smiled. “Then what’s the matter?”

  “Anna’s here. With her mother.”

  “Anna?” I followed his gaze to a young lady seated on the opposite end of the café. Soft brown curls framed her dimpled face, and her cheeks were flushed pink from the cold. Her
mother did not share her daughter’s easy good looks. At the moment her eyes, no wider than slits, were focused on Friedrich with violent intensity. She shook her head, stood up, and jerked Anna to her feet, marching her straight out the door.

  “Frau Eckoldt detests me,” Friedrich said.

  “Why?”

  “Because I had the audacity to win her daughter’s love.”

  “She objects to the match?”

  “To put it politely. My shortcomings are too many to list, although my dubious profession alone is enough to make me unacceptable.”

  “She objects to an artist?”

  “To a largely unsuccessful, often unemployed one, yes.”

  “But if you were employed?”

  “I’d still be Jewish.”

  “Ignorance and prejudice.” Now it was my turn to sigh. “I’m cynical enough to believe that rampant success would overcome anything she views as a shortcoming.”

  He shrugged. “I had hoped to get a commission to paint murals in some of the Ringstrasse buildings, but have had no success.”

  “I’ll commission something from you.”

  “I don’t want favors.”

  “No favors, then. But if I can assist you, you must let me.” I was determined to find some way to help him. “It’s the least I can do to thank you for arranging a meeting with Herr Schröder.”

  “Fine, Kallista, so long as you promise not to secretly fund my success as an artist.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it. You’ve the talent to manufacture your own success. But it never hurts to let a friend help with your luck.”

  17 December 1891

  Berkeley Square, London

  Dear Emily,

  Much is happening here. None of it good.

  Perhaps a little good. But the bad first. Today I persuaded Ivy she ought to get some air—and we thought it would be fun to find Davis a Christmas gift.

  At least, I thought it would be amusing. Ivy was a bit horrified, but rallied to the idea once we’d set out. We had just walked into Harrods when we saw Mrs. Hearst, a dreadful woman and acquaintance of the Taylors, my parents’ friends. Do you remember them? The horrible family I stayed with during last Season? Mrs. Hearst was in town shopping with one of her vapid, utterly uninteresting daughters—I can’t remember her name, not that it matters, they’re all interchangeably dull. As soon as she spotted Ivy, she steered her daughter away and then—can you believe it?—she came to me, pulled me away from Ivy, and told me in a loud voice that it would do me no good to associate with murderers.

  I admit that perhaps—just perhaps—my reaction was a bit dramatic. I wrenched my arm from hers and reprimanded her loudly, using some choice words that were, in hindsight, not perhaps the most appropriate for the situation.

  Still, I don’t regret it. She’s a toad, and I will not stand by and see Ivy bullied by people like her.

  We had to hold our own afterwards, although I’m certain poor Ivy would have liked nothing better than to return home, preferably under the cover of night in a closed carriage. I made her shop instead and bought your butler a gold cigar cutter on which I’m having his initials engraved. I do hope he likes it.

  As for the good, it’s not much. Only that Mr. Michaels has asked for my assistance—yes, assistance—on his current project. I told him I would be happy to help, so long as he publicly acknowledges that women should be allowed to be full members of the university. He turned red and tugged at his collar, but he agreed. Primarily, I think, because he knows I have a flair for translation.

  I hope your work in Vienna is going well. We are so very much depending upon you.

  I am, as always, your most corrupt friend, perhaps becoming more corrupt daily,

  Margaret

  Chapter 10

  After days and days the snow had stopped falling, but the sky was gray, matching the slush as it grew dirty beneath the wheels of fiacres. The paltry light that seeped through lingering clouds was absorbed by the city’s buildings; nothing glimmered. Even the electric lights that filled the new Court Theater looked dull to me. Another week gone, and no evidence to exonerate Robert.

  Cécile, Jeremy, and I spent the morning at the third-floor studio on Sandwirtgasse that Klimt shared with his brother, Ernst, and Franz Matsch. The three men made up the Känstlercompanie, and together worked on murals for public buildings, many on the Ringstrasse. Cécile sat for her portrait while Jeremy and I watched in awe the artist at work. He wore a long smock, and his thick beard stood stiff as he mixed paints and scrutinized his subject, occasionally reaching up to scratch the brindled cat that sat on his shoulder. I was somewhat distracted, watching the time, because although Friedrich may have said that anarchists do not frolic, Herr Schröder had sent a note inviting me to ice-skate with him. We planned to go to the turreted Eislaufverein, Vienna’s new skating palace, straight from the studio, but my friends would leave half an hour before I did, so they could watch the meeting without drawing any suspicion. None of us felt comfortable with me meeting this stranger alone, even in such a public place.

  “You are an exquisite woman, Kallista,” the artist said once Cécile and Jeremy had left. He, like most of Cécile’s friends, had adopted her use of my late husband’s nickname for me. “I wish you’d let me paint you.”

  “I’ve no time for it,” I said. “Someday, perhaps.”

  “I have a strong feeling you will never sit for me. I will have to memorize your grace, your eyes.”

  “Your work is so very different from anything else I’ve seen. Your brushstrokes are so intricate, yet they reveal the passionate depths of your subjects with such elegance. I wonder if they recognize themselves. Their faces, their bodies, yes. But do they see in themselves what you do?”

  “I couldn’t begin to answer your question. I have no talent for speaking, especially about my work. You will find, if you get to know me, that I am remarkably uninteresting.”

  “If that were true, Cécile would have no time for you. I think you’re pretending to be modest,” I said, circling the room, feeling myself come alive in the face of the paintings and drawings that covered the walls, tables, every available surface. It was such a comfortable feeling to be surrounded by art. I breathed in the smell of the oil paints, headier than perfume. “It’s quite a talent to be able to see so deeply into others. Have you ever done a portrait of the Countess von Lange?”

  “Kristiana? Yes. It’s at her house. You have not seen it?”

  “We’re not particular friends.”

  “That is a surprise. You’re so similar.” He pulled a stack of drawings out of a portfolio and began paging through them.

  “Similar? I don’t agree at all,” I said.

  “She’s more cynical and more worldly, yes, but she’s older than you. Give yourself a few years. You both have the same sort of spirit, the same stubbornness.” He handed me a large piece of paper. “This is a study for her portrait.” She was beautiful; that I knew already. But Klimt had captured, even just in pencil, her strength, her elegance, and her heartbreak. There was a profound sadness in her eyes. “And you both love the same man.”

  “I—”

  “It is time for you to meet your friends,” he said, taking the sketch back from me.

  I left at once, glad to be away from the drawing, not liking in the least the thought that I might be like this woman—my rival—at all. And once again, I was wondering how deep Colin’s feelings for her had been. All this left me utterly morose as I made my way to the park. When I arrived, Jeremy and Cécile were on the ice, making their way effortlessly around the rink, arm in arm.

  I strapped on my skates. A brass band began to play a delightful march, and for a moment I allowed myself to be caught up in excitement and anticipation. I stepped out, ready to join the parade of gliding skaters, realizing immediately that I did not have even an ounce of their grace. My ankles bent hideously, and I would have fallen flat on my back were it not for the quick reflexes of a nearby gentleman.
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  “Your friend is an excellent skater,” he said, and as soon as I saw his face, I recognized Herr Schröder from Friedrich’s sketch. But his eyes took me by surprise. They were dark, with flecks of gold that rendered them entirely mesmerizing. “Is she here to protect you from me? Or is that the role of her amiable and useless companion?”

  Undaunted, I took his arm, and we began to slowly circle the rink. “I’m not foolish enough to have come here alone.”

  “Your German is appalling. Speak English.”

  “My German is nothing of the sort,” I answered, refusing to switch to English. “And it’s leagues better than your English.”

  “Why have you sought my company?” he asked.

  “I’m here on a…diplomatic…mission. A man was murdered in England shortly after receiving a warning that came from Vienna. I want to know who sent it.”

  “What makes you think I would know anything about it? Because I am an anarchist, I’m likely to be a murderer?”

  “I did not accuse you of murder. But you think freedom can be obtained through violence, so, yes, I think you’re likely to be connected in some way.”

  The muscles in his arm tensed. “You know nothing about anarchism.”

  “There’s no need to get upset. I sought you out not simply because you are an anarchist, but because your name was mentioned to me by a friend. As it is, I’m not particularly concerned with what you do, so long as you help me identify the person who sent this information to England.” He said nothing. “If he is a member of your, well, I suppose ‘organization’ wouldn’t be a proper word to describe a group of people opposed to order. What would be?”

  Now he laughed. “Organization will do. We’ll agree that the irony is deliberate.”

  My laughter joined his. “Will you help me?”

  “I don’t like being charmed by someone who embodies everything I despise,” he said.

  “I’m hardly to blame for anything you despise, particularly where politics are concerned. I’m not allowed to vote, after all.”