Sisi, page 3
Sisi sighed. “Let them whisper. Let them gossip. I want you here.”
Andrássy still looked at her appraisingly.
Sisi forced herself to keep her breath steady, noting how his dark eyes caused her insides to thrash about. “Besides,” she said, “it’s not the people in Budapest who start the rumors; it’s the Viennese.”
Andrássy resumed their walk. “That is true. The Hungarians would never utter a word against you, their queen. Their Sisi.”
“Or you. Their beloved prime minister.”
Andrássy cocked his head, considering this.
“So you’ll stay.”
Andrássy’s lips spread into a reluctant smile as he acquiesced. “If that is what my queen commands, then who am I to disobey?”
“Good,” Sisi said, turning her smile back toward the garden path before them. She loved that Andrássy let her win on matters close to her heart. Loved that he accounted for and nurtured her feelings with such tenderness. It was something Franz had always been less inclined to do.
“I will confess that I am chastising myself,” Sisi continued. “Thanks to my support back in Vienna, you were made prime minister here in Hungary. And now, due to that very same title, you are forced to go so often to Vienna or to stay walled up in Budapest’s parliamentary chambers while I myself have decamped here.”
“We are quite the star-crossed pair, aren’t we?” Andrássy was deliberately shortening his long stride, allowing her to set a slow, meandering pace.
“I love you for the statesman you are…and yet, I hate it as well.” Sisi sighed. “I suppose I should ask you how Vienna was?”
Andrássy thought a moment before answering. “Your husband’s council has pretty much entirely turned over in recent months. As I’m sure you are aware.”
“You’d be surprised how little I know from Vienna.”
“But you and Franz—er, the emperor—write regularly, don’t you?”
“Oh, he keeps me updated on the children. And all of the inconsequential facts of his daily life—what he ate at the previous day’s supper, what show is being put on at the Court Theater.” Sisi paused, looking out over the darkening grounds, where unseen crickets filled the night with their soft strands of pastoral music. “But Franz has never liked me to speak about anything that goes deeper than courteous small talk, so that most certainly precludes politics. I’ve only ever found him willing to listen to me on one political question: Hungary.”
Andrássy leaned close now, and she caught a whiff of his fragrance, shaving soap and cigar smoke. His lips nearly grazing her ear, he whispered: “Hungary. The cause closest to your heart.”
“Indeed.” She felt his arm grip hers tighter—a gesture so minor that she might have missed it, and yet, there was no missing the jolt that his touch sent rippling through her entire body.
But Andrássy’s voice turned suddenly serious. “And that is precisely why the emperor’s advisory council has seen such a turnover.”
“Because of his willingness to grant Hungary autonomy? Because he signed off on the creation of the Austro-Hungarian Dual Monarchy from the Austrian Empire?”
Andrássy nodded, and Sisi thought about this, eventually shrugging. “A change of blood in Vienna was long overdue. Franz knows that the Austro-Hungarian Compromise was the right thing to do, even if his ministers now protest it. It was the only way to keep Hungary from open rebellion, to preserve the borders of his empire. He didn’t want a civil war across his lands—a war that might well have engulfed all of Europe. Especially so soon after he suffered such a decisive defeat against Prussia and Italy. No, Europe can’t have any more war.”
“He does see that, and he said as much,” Andrássy agreed, his tone still heavy with thought.
“My husband’s ministers are like weeds,” Sisi said. “Mow one down, two more shall pop up in the same place.”
Andrássy paused, angling his body so it tilted toward hers. “Come now, you think so little of me?”
She turned to him, a mischievous smile pulling her lips apart. “You were mine before you were his. You’re different.”
“I should hope so.”
As they resumed walking, Sisi was tempted to ask Andrássy which highborn courtier or vulgar actress her husband’s ministers had found to warm the emperor’s bed these days, but she swallowed that bitter thought. Her time with Andrássy was sacred—she wouldn’t allow the old scars of her broken marriage to seep into this moment. Plus, the days when she had truly cared about all of that had passed. She was no longer the naïve girl Franz Joseph had married; the guileless sixteen-year-old provincial who had confused infatuation for love and promises for deeds. The girl who hadn’t understood how things are done at the Imperial Court and who had been broken when the time had come for her to learn.
Franz couldn’t hurt Sisi now, not like he once could. Her heart, battered by the crushing blows issued first by her mother-in-law, then by her husband, and then by the death of one child and the emotional loss of the other two, had, miraculously, revived in recent years. Somehow, slowly and stubbornly, the heart that Sisi had presumed wasted and ruined had continued to beat. Had developed a layer of scar tissue and had refused to give way. And so she had decided anew to live. On her own terms. And with that decision had come acceptance and a new potency—and freedom. Franz was far away from her now, made so not only by the physical distance she had put between them but also by the shield she had raised for herself; there was nothing that Franz could do to hurt her now.
Besides, their marriage hadn’t had that physical element to it in years—almost a decade, now that she thought about it. Save for that brief reconciliation when she had returned to the imperial marital bed while working with Franz Joseph to forge the Austro-Hungarian Compromise. A fleeting encounter that, miraculously, had given her Valerie, as well as the kingdom of Hungary.
And now Andrássy stood before her, his dark-eyed gaze as soft as black velvet, and glorious evening had fallen over Gödöllő. So Sisi pushed Franz and the years they had spent hurting each other out of her mind. She had wrestled with and found some sort of peace with the fact that Franz had allowed her first three children to be taken from her, making her feel like a broodmare and an outcast in her own court. That her life with Franz had never been theirs, but had always been overcrowded and overstructured, overshadowed by the demands of his role as emperor. That he had neglected her, keeping his emotions closed off from her understanding and never striving to know hers, either. That he had instead sought the company of his generals and his ministers and his mother and other women. That he had wandered from their marriage—but what did any of that matter? For now she herself was the wanderer, wasn’t she?
Andrássy broke into her silent reverie, raising his finger to stroke her forehead. “You look as if you are doing battle.”
“I am.”
“Who is winning?”
She offered half a smile. “I am.”
“Good.” He leaned down and kissed her brow; it was too bold of a move for a place as public as the gardens, but the last light of the day had slipped away, and the seam of darkness had closed in around them.
A sound traveled into the yard through an open window—the laughter of a servant in the kitchens. Andrássy pulled his lips from her brow. “I suppose we should get you in to dinner.”
“I suppose you are right.” Sisi sighed, agreeing. They both turned back toward the palace. “I must warn you, we will be joined by Nicky—Prince Esterházy—at dinner.”
Andrássy groaned, pausing in their walk.
“Well, I didn’t know you would be here,” Sisi said, somewhat amused by his apparent jealousy. “Had you written, I might have made sure that he—”
“I like to surprise you, you know that. The look of delight on your face makes the pain of the separation worth it.”
“Ah, but you came by while I was riding with Nicky, so the surprise was thwarted.”
Andrássy leaned close to whisper now, his words tickling her ear: “Then perhaps I might have to find another way to summon the look of delight to your beautiful face.”
—
Prince Esterházy awaited them in the dining room. He stood expectant and formal, much like his impeccable posture in the saddle. Esterházy, like Andrássy, wore a full coat and tails, and he looked fresh and rosy after a day spent chasing foxes.
“Oh, Queen Elisabeth, you are not alone.” Esterházy’s face sagged, betraying the same frustration that Andrássy had just voiced. “Andrássy,” he said, forcing an upbeat tone even as he clenched his jaw. “Good to see you.”
“And you, Esterházy.” The two men shook hands.
“Have you recently returned from Vienna?”
“Just today,” Andrássy answered.
Esterházy cocked a dark eyebrow. “And you’ve already left Budapest for the queen’s dinner table? Don’t you have business to see to back in the city?”
“What business could be more important than paying my respects to our sovereign and seeking her counsel on my recent trip?”
Esterházy frowned, fiddling with the sleeves of his dinner jacket.
“But I must commend you, Esterházy,” Andrássy continued, his tone one of forced amiability. “It seems that you have taken great care of our queen—I hear you’ve been a most devoted companion while I’ve been away. She’s had no shortage of Hungarian hospitality from you.”
Sisi couldn’t help but chuckle to herself as she took her seat at the center of the table, directing the men to either side of her. She continued to revel in their rivalry throughout dinner as they traded verbal barbs. Nicky’s jealousy came as no surprise: he was a charming, wealthy, attractive nobleman. He had ladies all over Hungary in pursuit of his smiles and his family fortune. The fact that he owned the largest stable of thoroughbreds in the country, and that his estate bordered Gödöllő Palace, had made Prince Nikolaus Esterházy a most pleasant companion for Sisi the past few months. Not to mention that he was perhaps the only rider in the country who could keep up with her, a legendarily skilled horseback rider herself.
Andrássy seemed taken aback by Nicky’s presumptuousness, by the familiar manner in which he spoke to Ida and Marie, by the amount of time his rival had clearly spent at this dinner table and in the presence of Sisi during his most recent absence. It was cruel of Sisi to do so, and she knew it, but she watched Andrássy frown and fidget throughout dinner with a sense of something akin to relief, if not outright pleasure. Andrássy’s jealousy was the surest sign that his feelings for her had not altered during their separation. That he still longed for her—needed her—with the same yearning that she felt for him. And so, as dinner progressed and the footmen marched out the endless parade of plates and dishes, Sisi sipped her wine and allowed herself to grow tipsy on the meal and the company.
“I presume then, Count Andrássy, that you will be returning to Budapest this evening after supper? To Countess Andrássy?” Esterházy smoked throughout dessert, addressing the footmen by name and calling them over for frequent refills of his wineglass.
“I have asked the prime minister to stay in Gödöllő,” Sisi interjected, sensing that the tension at the table might mount to an undesirable level at this latest remark. Andrássy looked down at his dessert plate, his exhale audible. He hated any mention of his wife, so long estranged from him but still, legally, his spouse. He knew, as did Sisi, that they were both married. That the love that existed between them was wrong—even if it didn’t feel so. He hated for Sisi to be reminded of Countess Andrássy’s existence. Like all burdens, this was yet another one from which he tried to protect Sisi.
“I’ve asked Count Andrássy to stay,” Sisi continued, her voice remaining clear and calm. She scooped herself a taste of her favorite dessert, a violet ice cream made and transported especially for her by one of Budapest’s confectioners. “Only for a few days. I haven’t been back to Vienna in months, and I want a full report.”
Esterházy turned to Sisi now, his lips scowling under his full, dark mustache. All these Hungarian men, Sisi thought, was it a requirement of their upbringing to have these dark mustaches? It made them appear so dashing when they smiled—but so brooding and fearsome when they frowned.
“Now, then.” Sisi sat up tall, shifting the conversation. “Shall it be cards or charades tonight? Or perhaps we should have some music or poetry?”
Following dinner, the group moved to the drawing room for drinks and entertainment, and nighttime in Gödöllő settled into its easy, familiar rhythm. Here, the late hours were passed before a cozy fire, with Ida reading aloud from the Hungarian poet Mihály Vörösmarty or Marie plunking her way through a Franz Liszt sonata on the piano. Everyone was free to come and go, to propose whatever enjoyment they wanted. Shadow and Brave would avail themselves of the patch of carpet at Sisi’s feet. Ida would sit to Sisi’s left with a smile, accommodating and pliant, always willing to do whatever the group—or rather, whatever Sisi—wanted. Meanwhile Marie Festetics, ever solicitous, would buzz around the room, fretting that Sisi sat too close to the open window where she might catch the cold breeze, or wondering aloud if perhaps her seat close to the fire made Her Majesty overly warm. Sisi would smile and assure her lady, “I am perfectly content.”
In Vienna, even the most intimate family gatherings were dictated by centuries of rigid Habsburg tradition and imperial protocol. The most natural of interactions became somehow stilted and uncomfortable—made so by the unceasing need to pay homage to that royal deity, etiquette. Even in the private family sitting room, even when it was just Sisi and the children with Franz and his mother, no one was permitted to speak unless first addressed by the emperor. No one was to sit down to the table without dining gloves on. No one was to rise from a chair until His Majesty rose. No one was to eat once His Majesty had finished eating. The rules were limitless and unyielding, so that all that seemed to pass between the family members were short, meaningless scraps of small talk or polite comments on the day’s happenings.
Here, as hostess, Sisi encouraged the exact opposite ambience. As she nestled into her plush chair now, her glass of sweet tokaji in her ungloved hands, she gave thanks for the tenth time that day that she was far away from the imperial capital. That she was here, where Valerie slept safely in the nursery and the nights were relaxed and merry, full of wine and laughter and candid discussion.
Or at least, where the nights here were usually relaxed and merry. Tonight, things were noticeably tenser. Sensing the possibility of a quarrel should the topic veer toward the personal, Sisi steered the conversation toward politics, relatively safe ground by comparison. It seemed that, however much enmity existed between Esterházy and Andrássy, they could agree on one thing: their dislike of their neighbor to the north. Prussia under Chancellor Bismarck was growing alarmingly strong and increasingly militant. Having already defeated Austria in a war several years earlier, Bismarck now sought to make Franz Joseph his ally. And then, once assured of Vienna’s friendship—or submission—it seemed that the iron fist of Bismarck was poised to strike France, where Emperor Napoleon III was accused of being more preoccupied with his lavish palaces and Empress Eugénie’s sultry figure than the affairs of state. Both Andrássy and Esterházy agreed: if Prussia were to fight and defeat France, it would upset the entire balance of power in Europe.
“But I think the queen and her ladies grow weary of our political talk, Andrássy.” Esterházy, appearing more relaxed than he had at dinner, leaned forward in his chair, fixing his eyes on Sisi. “Come, let’s talk of Your Grace’s favorite topic: riding. Why, we almost had that fox today, didn’t we?”
Sisi couldn’t help but perk up at the memory. “We did! My goodness, Nicky, when you took that final hedgerow at a full gallop, I was sure you were about to be unseated.”
Esterházy erupted into a full-belly laugh, the type of laughter that’s not necessarily the expression of some authentic inner delight but rather seems somehow like gloating. As if the individual laughing wishes for others to see that he has cause to laugh. “Have you so little faith in my skills in the saddle, even after all this time we’ve spent riding together, Queen Elisabeth?”
Sisi handed her glass to Ida for a refill, avoiding Andrássy’s glower. But then, before she could answer, a footman appeared and bowed before the entrance to the room, his gloved hands carrying a silver mail tray.
“Yes?” Sisi sat up in her armchair, lowering her drink to the nearby table. “Come in. What is it?”
The footman bowed once more before approaching Sisi, his eyes angling downward as he proffered the tray carrying a single telegram. Sisi made swift work of opening the message. It was from Gisela—how strange to have had two correspondences from her daughter in the same day. Sisi read the words quickly:
MY ESTEEMED MADAME, YOUR IMPERIAL HIGHNESS STOP HAS YOUR MAJESTY RECEIVED LETTER? STOP REPLY REQUESTED AT ONCE STOP MOST URGENT MATTER STOP HUMBLY AND RESPECTFULLY YOURS, GISELA FULL STOP.
Sisi felt her spine go rigid. The letter—Gisela’s letter. She’d put it away, tucked it into a fold of her dressing gown to be read at a later hour. She had been so eager to get to Valerie, to see Andrássy, she had put it off.
“Your Majesty?” Marie leaned forward.
“What is it? Is everything all right?” Andrássy strode toward where Sisi sat, his dark brows knitting together.
“I’m so sorry, but I must—” Sisi looked back at the telegram in her hands, dazed. When she finally spoke again, it was with a faint voice: “But I must excuse myself. I…I…wish you all a good night.” And with that, Sisi rose from her chair and left the room, her ladies and her two hounds trailing after her.
Upstairs, an unseen servant had tidied while Sisi had been at dinner, arranging the queen’s bed for sleep and replacing her dressing gown into the armoire. Sisi strode briskly across the large room, marching straight for the gown as Marie and Ida ordered more candles lit. Sisi riffled through the folds of fabric until her hands touched on Gisela’s letter, deep in the pocket where she had left it.
