The Accidental Empress (51 page)

XII.

I loved, I lived,

I wandered throughout the world;

But never reached what I strove for—

I deceived and was deceived.

—Empress Elisabeth “Sisi” of Austria

Chapter Twelve

SCHÖNBRUNN SUMMER PALACE, VIENNA

SUMMER 1857

“It’s as I
said from the beginning,” Sophie whispered, wiping a tear from her cheek with her embroidered handkerchief. It was, Sisi noted to herself, her body numb, the first time she had ever seen the archduchess weep. “You never should have taken the little princesses on that trip. I knew nothing good would come of it.”

They were riding home to Schönbrunn Palace from the Kaisergruft, the imperial crypt beneath Vienna’s Capuchin Church, where little Sophie’s tiny body had been laid to rest beside her Habsburg predecessors. Given the cramped closeness of the carriage, Sisi could only suspect that she was intended to overhear Sophie’s remarks. She had braced for this—knowing that Sophie would act while Sisi was weakest, her confidence as a mother most ravaged. And Sisi, too heartbroken to speak, let alone argue, would let Sophie win. Because perhaps what Sophie was saying was true; perhaps it
was
her fault that her beloved daughter had died.

If the journey to Hungary had been the bright spot of her marriage and adult life, the return to Vienna was the darkest. Sisi wished, futilely, that the fever would return to finish its work, taking her along with her daughter. But, cruelly, she remained alive. Her body, in some vicious trick of nature, remained strong and healthy. And so all that she could do was stay in her apartments and mimic death. She kept the curtains perpetually drawn against the clear sun of the summer. The outside world only mocked Sisi’s misery, thumbed its nose at the broken woman inside with its sights of fresh flowers and fat bumblebees, and busy servants catering to a household that still ran in her absence. As if there was still life to be lived.

Franz stopped trying to console her. She refused to join him and his mother for family meals. She refused to grant entry to the courtiers who queued up outside her apartments, hoping to express their condolences and offer their prayers for the young princess. When Franz suggested that she begin riding again, and even offered to buy her a new horse, she laughed at him. A hollow, hoarse laugh that contained no drop of mirth.

Prayers and notes of grief poured in from across the empire, collecting on her desk, unopened and unanswered. Agata, Marie, and Herr Lobkowitz learned to go about their administrative duties without attempting to extract attention or interest from the empress, who spent most of her time in bed, eyes opened but expressionless. Her only outings were the daily coach rides to the imperial crypt, where, veiled in black, Sisi spent hours weeping before her daughter’s tomb. Once her tears were exhausted and her head ached, she’d return, black shades drawn around the coach, to the palace.

The only two visitors to whom Sisi granted entry were the painter from whom she’d commissioned her daughter’s portrait and the jeweler who carved the small pendant with the princess’s likeness. Sisi wore the charm on a chain around her wrist, kissing it often.

When summer finally melted away and the gray, dank chill of November settled over the city, they relocated to the Hofburg, where the palace walls felt cold to the touch and the brightest rooms only ever appeared partially lit. The days grew short, the nights stretched on, fierce and cold, and Sisi felt, at last, that the world was acknowledging the deep, frozen despair she felt within.

Sisi had little interest in eating, and flatly refused to dress. She protested when Agata tried to light a fire in the bedroom. Food, fine clothing, and the warmth of the fire were garish comforts, unwelcome imposters for a body that did not wish to be comforted. She wanted to be cold, hungry, to feel pain, so that she could momentarily redirect her thoughts to that discomfort and forget the much deeper, much more insidious, bottomless misery that throbbed from inside of her.

Even after the official period of court mourning ended, Franz indulged her behavior as that of an inconsolable mother, ravaged by her grief. He was too busy to argue with her, as the return to Vienna had brought with it fresh troubles from Prussia, Hungary, and now Italy. A stoic and unfailingly rational man, conditioned in the dogmas of forbearance and duty, he didn’t know how to pull his wife from the clutches of this darkness. And so, he avoided her entirely.

Sophie seemed to view Sisi’s secluded bereavement as a long-overdue acknowledgment of capitulation. Sophie took charge of Gisela without further challenge. She did not seek Sisi out, nor did Sisi mind the complete cessation in communications with her mother-in-law. Sisi’s ostracism was a just punishment. At last, Sisi and Sophie agreed.

During this time Sisi was, mercifully, excused from her social responsibilities. Franz attended state dinners, mass services, and balls alone. Perhaps not entirely alone. Sophie no doubt noticed the void left by her daughter-in-law’s absence, and Sisi suspected that her mother-in-law had happily taken Franz’s empty arm, willingly accompanying him to all events, once again held up as the most powerful woman at court.

New Year’s Day mass, however, was an occasion from which the empress could not be excused, even if she did feel as though God himself had turned his back on her. The people had been lined up in the frigid weather for hours, days, hoping to steal a glimpse of the empress as she passed through the brightly painted Swiss Gate. And so on the coldest day of the year, with the sun shining as pale and feeble as her wan, joyless expression, Sisi set off for church with her family—the dutiful wife standing beside her husband to pray for a blessed year for the empire. The crowds roared for her. They threw flowers at her passing sleigh, hollered out their wishes that she would produce an heir this year. She wept quietly as she rode, murmuring the words of Goethe’s tragic poem about a shooting star: “
Once I blazed across the sky, leaving trails of flame. I fell to earth, and here I lie. Who’ll help me up again?
”

Those who joined them at mass had a close enough view to truly see Sisi and the change that had occurred in her over the past months. They stared. Not how they used to stare, hungry to feast upon the splendor she had radiated. No, they looked now with—what was that look? Concern? Surprise? Gloating? Perhaps it was a little bit of all of it. She knew that her appearance must certainly elicit strong reactions from the courtiers who had seen her in the full glory of her bridal and maternal bloom. That previously soft frame was now shrunken, her chestnut hair pulled back in a tight bun so that her famous curls were in no way visible. And even as she left the church, bombarded by the hordes who jostled to spot her before she climbed back into the sleigh, her features could not form a smile, her cheeks could not manage a girlish blush.

“What did you pray for in the New Year at mass, my darling?” Franz offered his arm to escort her into the formal dinner at the Hofburg Palace following the church service. His tone was upbeat, even cheerful, which Sisi registered with indifference.

“There is nothing to pray for, nothing to hope for.”

Franz leaned closer to hear her speak, so low was her voice.

“One daughter is gone, the other now lost to me, the same as if she were dead.”

“Elisa.” Franz creased his brow, at a loss for how to respond to a declaration so utterly devoid of hope. He, who had mourned the loss of Sophie and then somehow—inexplicably—rallied. Returned to his life and his duties as emperor.

Sisi realized now how terrible she sounded, and she forced herself to rouse, even just a little bit. “What did you pray for, Franz?” She asked, failing to summon interest in his answer. But at least she had asked.

“I prayed for a Habsburg son, Elisa. As I’m sure the rest of the church did.”

“Oh. A son.” She repeated his wish, her tone indifferent. Did he really expect her to bear more children? she wondered, slightly amused at the thought. Life, for her, was over; did he not understand that? That included living life, enjoying life, and yes, producing life. The thought of carrying a new baby in her shriveled, wasted body was so absurd that she sputtered out a laugh. Poor Franz! How she pitied him! What a wife he had picked for himself; he, who could have had any girl in Europe!

Sisi managed to make her way through the feast without having to offer much in the way of conversation. To her left sat Marie, to her right Karoline. Marie made a valiant effort to draw the empress into her conversations, though Sisi noticed, with gratitude, that Marie did not ever pose a direct question that would have required Sisi to speak. Sisi looked around, noticing with disinterest the lengths to which the palace staff had gone to decorate the Redoutensaal, the magnificent hall with its glittering golden trim and high, frescoed ceiling. She studied the red flowers and berries in the vase before her plate. She watched the fluttering feathers in Sophie’s hairdo. She heard, vaguely, as Franz complained that his lungs hurt, that his cough had not abated. She had not known that he had a cough.

Sisi left her schnitzel untouched on her plate, watching as Sophie devoured her own meal and refilled her champagne glass again and again. Perhaps she should offer her schnitzel to her mother-in-law, Sisi thought. Sophie’s appetite was certainly as voracious as ever.

“Majesty?” Marie leaned toward her, speaking in a low tone as Karoline rose to greet her latest suitor, a nobleman from Kraków.

“You look very . . . distracted, Majesty.”

“Marie.” Sisi placed her hand atop her friend’s.

“Are you quite well, Majesty?”

Sisi sputtered out a cheerless laugh—how was she to answer such a question? “Oh, Marie. Sweet, loyal Marie. You are so good to me.”

“I’m worried about you,” Marie said, as if Sisi had not already read that on her attendant’s wide, honest face.

“Hello, Countess Festetics.” Franz had risen from his seat at the opposite end of the banquet hall and now sat down beside his wife in the seat vacated by Karoline. He accepted a dessert plate of chocolate pastries covered in
Schlag
, cream, and a bowl of candied fruit.

Sisi shook her head at the footman who attempted to offer her the same sweets. “No, thank you.”

“Take it, Elisa,” Franz said.

“I have no appetite.”

“We will help you eat it.” Franz looked up at the confused footman, nodding for him to leave the plates. Sisi looked away, eyes landing on the far side of the room where people had begun to dance. Master Strauss stood before the court musicians, his arms waving energetically, the violin bow in his hand keeping the three-quarter tempo.

“Is there anything you’d like to hear tonight, Empress?” Franz leaned toward Sisi. “Perhaps your waltz?”

Sisi shook her head, and the thread of attempted conversation withered to silence. After several minutes, Franz tried again. “So, Countess Festetics, did you have a nice Christmas?”

“Very nice, Your Majesty, thank you.” Marie looked down at her own dessert plate but did not touch the food.

“Good.” Franz nodded. “I hope you will tell your family in Hungary that I wish them all a very Happy New Year as well.”

“You are kind, Your Majesty. They will be most humbled to hear it. And you, Your Majesty.” Marie bowed her head. “May it be full of blessings for you and the empress.”

“Thank you, Marie. And are you enjoying the feast?”

Marie looked at Sisi, that uneasy expression once more tugging at her features. “It’s lovely, Majesty. Thank you.”

“What do you think?” Franz scooped up a dollop of
Schlag
, swallowing a mouthful before speaking again. “Do you think we can get the empress back to health in the New Year?” Franz looked at his wife, studying her as he would a painting he did not quite understand. Sisi wanted to tell him that he had a morsel of chocolate stuck in his mustache.

“I certainly hope we can, Your Grace,” Marie said.

“Your Majesty, may I wish you a Happy New Year?”