A Fatal Waltz

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.”