Sisi, page 38
Rudolf’s mood seemed uncharacteristically bright as he was announced at Sisi’s door, Stéphanie at his side and his little Elisabeth, nicknamed Erzsi after the Hungarian pronunciation, in his arms. “Merry Christmas, and happy birthday, Mother!” He looked fresh faced and relaxed, his chestnut hair combed neatly, the hint of a rare smile turning up his lips.
“Thank you, Rudy dear,” Sisi said, allowing her son to kiss her cheek. “Stéphanie, please come in.” She offered her daughter-in-law a smile before leaning in to nuzzle her little granddaughter. “Wait until you see what Grandmother has for you, my little Erzsi.”
“What did we teach you to say now, Erzsi?” Rudy said, practically beaming at his little girl.
“Happy birthday, Grandmother,” the little girl mumbled, before applauding her own success. All around her, the adults broke out into laudatory laughter.
“Why, thank you, my dear little one,” Sisi said. “Do you see my Tannenbaum in the corner? Go and see the Christmas tree all decorated!”
Valerie arrived next, nearly bursting through the door. “Happy birthday, Mamma.”
“Valerie, my darling, hello.” Sisi embraced her daughter. “Darling, are you warm? Do you have a fever?”
The girl’s cheeks bore a rosy flush, as if heated by embers smoldering inside her belly. “No, I’m well.” She avoided her mother’s eye contact, waved off the palm Sisi tried to press to her forehead, and continued farther into the room. “Hello, Rudolf, Stéphanie. Erzsi-lamb!”
If Rudolf appeared unusually chipper and Valerie unusually flustered, Franz appeared also entirely unlike himself. He didn’t smile as he entered Sisi’s room, his arrival announced by the servant and his own agitated, heavy footsteps. Kathi Schratt was away, visiting her own family for the Christmas holiday—Franz always grew more irritable the longer his friend was away from him.
“Merry Christmas, Franz.” Sisi tried to lift his spirits now, greeting her husband with a smile and a glass of champagne as the rest of the family assembled around the tree. Rudy was showing Erzsi the garlands as Stéphanie and Valerie chatted with Larisch and Marie Festetics and Ida.
“Happy birthday, Sisi.” Franz was, as always, starched and impeccably well groomed in his cavalry officer’s uniform, but his frown betrayed some inner disarray he couldn’t completely mask. Perhaps it was even deeper than simply missing Kathi. Was there some concern of the state that weighed on him? Sisi wondered. Or had some quarrel occurred between father and son, the cause of which she was not aware?
“Come now, you must have your gifts, Mother.” Rudy interrupted her thoughts, holding forth a large parcel wrapped in red tissue paper and ribbon. He put the heavy package in Sisi’s hands, his face animated and boyish, almost bashful. “This is something I’ve been so eager to share with you.”
“Why, thank you, Rudy dear,” Sisi said, looking from her son to the gift he handed to her. “It’s heavy.”
“It took me months to locate this.”
“Oh? Well, you’ve certainly piqued my interest.” Sisi made to tear the paper.
“Wait!” Valerie stepped forward, throwing a look from her brother to her mother. “Sorry! Before gifts, there’s something I must tell you all.”
Sisi felt her stomach flip over on itself. Whatever it was, whatever Valerie’s news, it was clearly the cause of the girl’s agitated mood, the reason for her blushing cheeks. “What is it, Valerie?” Sisi asked, putting the parcel down on the nearby table, its contents entirely forgotten.
Valerie shifted from one foot to the other, looking from her mother to her father. “I don’t know how to say it. Oh, I suppose I should just be out with it—Salvator and I are going to marry!”
Silence filled the room now but for the pop of a decomposing log within the white porcelain stove. “Salvator?” Sisi lowered herself into the nearest chair. “You and Salvator are engaged to be married?”
“He’s asked for my hand, and I’ve accepted.”
Sisi looked from Valerie to Franz. Her husband was as stunned by the news as she was, if his wide, unblinking eyes were any indication. How different things were these days, Sisi thought. Why, her own engagement had been the business of almost everyone but herself. Sisi hadn’t even known of her own engagement until after all the parents, government ministers, ambassadors, priests—even the pope—had discussed and considered and approved of the terms. And now here was Valerie, telling her parents how it would be.
“Salvator, our cousin?” Rudolf’s face crumpled in disbelief. “You wish to marry him? An insignificant Tuscan?”
Stéphanie sniggered beside Rudolf.
“Yes,” Valerie said, her tone defiant as she stared at her brother. “I wish to marry him.”
“But he’s in the army. In Italy,” Sisi said.
“So I shall move there to be with him,” Valerie replied, shrugging. “What is it? It’s not as though I’m the first young lady to ever be married. Why do you all look as if I’ve told you I plan to move to America?”
“Well…” Franz spoke for the first time since the news, clearing his throat. “This calls for a celebration.”
“I would say so, even if you all look as though I’ve just died, rather than told you I’m in love.”
“Ida, some champagne, if you would?” Franz nodded.
Several bottles were popped, and Franz made a toast to his daughter’s happiness and health, but the assembly had taken a decided turn away from the previously festive ambiance. Only Erzsi was impervious to the shift in mood, and she now stepped toward her grandmother and tugged on her skirts. Sisi looked down at the girl. “Yes, my darling?”
“There,” Erzsi said, pointing at the parcel that Sisi had yet to unwrap. “Papa’s present to you. Open!”
“She wants to play with the ribbon,” Stéphanie explained.
“Well, then I had better open it,” Sisi said, her voice breathless even as she tried to sound enthusiastic. The truth was, she now could not care about Rudy’s gift or any of the other presents. Not now, not when she had just learned that Valerie had accepted a proposal for marriage and would be leaving. Moving far away. And how soon, Sisi didn’t know.
Sisi took the heavy parcel in her hands and tore at the paper, rending it apart in two quick motions. There in her hands sat a pile of aged leather books. She stared at them, taking several moments to form any response. “Books,” she said finally, her voice flat. “How lovely. Thank you, Rudolf.”
“Not just any books, Mamma,” Rudolf said, setting down his flute of champagne and approaching his mother’s side. “Look here.” He pointed at the cover of the top book.
“Heinrich Heine,” Sisi read aloud, nodding.
“They are original letters, Mamma, written by Heine himself. Personal letters he wrote to relatives all over the globe. I know how you venerate Heine. I’ve had my agents tracking these down for months. And here”—Rudy riffled through the pile—“is a collection called The Austro-Hungarian Monarchy in Word and Picture.”
Sisi nodded, absorbing perhaps half of what her son said.
When she offered no reply, Rudolf crossed his arms in front of his chest, staring at her. After a moment, his voice entirely deflated, he said, “This is priceless material, Mother.”
Sisi blinked, trying to muster some enthusiasm to match her son’s. On any other day, she knew she would have agreed with Rudolf—this was indeed priceless material. And clearly not easily found or procured. She should have been ecstatic to possess such a rare memento from her favorite writer. She would have been moved to tears at her son’s show of love and thoughtfulness. And yet, what did a collection of letters matter when her most cherished child was leaving her? “Thank you, Rudolf.” She smiled thinly, placing the books down on the table. “I shall look forward to reading them.”
Rudolf continued to stare at her, his expression shifting like the sky when a gray cloud glides over it to darken resplendent, bright sunshine. “I thought you adored Heine,” he said, more under his breath than aloud. And with that he turned, picked up his champagne glass, and crossed the room to demand a refill.
The remainder of the gifts were given and opened. Franz was no longer alone in his surliness, now that Rudolf had retreated to the corner, speaking only to Larisch, and in tones so low that no one else could make out his words. At one point, the girl giggled loudly as Rudolf leaned close to pinch the bare flesh of her arm, and Sisi noticed Franz’s troubled look as he observed the exchange. Sisi took little pleasure in giving Erzsi the garden furniture set she had had commissioned, nor did she take much notice when she unveiled the drawing that Stéphanie presented to her, a mediocre rendering that her daughter-in-law had made of the ocean.
They moved into Sisi’s private dining room for the Christmas Eve dinner. Liveried footmen brought in an endless procession of platters, depositing them on the full table as a cluster of the imperial musicians struck up a melody in the corner. At the table, the Christmas feast made a dazzling tableau. The white porcelain dishes shone, their golden edges etched with the crest of the Habsburg double-headed eagle. Gilded bronze centerpieces twinkled beneath piles of fruit and sweetmeats, and playful little putti held up candelabras that cast an ethereal glow over the lavish spread. The chefs had prepared goose liver pâté and breaded perch and Franz’s favorite boiled beef, Tafelspitz, heaped with apples and horseradish. Next came rindfleisch fillet and schnitzel and potato noodles and Salzburger Nockerln dumplings. Franz directed the platters around the table, the dishes growing more aromatic as the diners sliced into them. The sound of their cutlery mingled with the sweet notes of the violins, but no one at the table spoke.
Eventually it was Rudolf who broke the silence, after he’d availed himself of half a dozen flutes of champagne. “There is a new young doctor here in town. I’ve had the chance to read some of his early writings—simply fascinating, his advances in science,” Rudolf said, wiping his thin mustache with a napkin. “Dr. Sigmund Freud is his name. Are you familiar with his work?” His eyes went first to his father.
“I am not,” Franz answered, his attention more focused on cutting into the fillet on his plate than his son’s inquiry.
“You ought to look into it, Father. He has some interesting theories.” Rudolf took a long draw from his wineglass. “Interesting what he says about fathers and their sons.”
“Hmm.” Franz’s reply sounded more like a grunt than an actual expression of interest; there was nothing in that sound to encourage further conversation from his son.
Just then Erzsi stood up on her chair and leaned over the table, reaching her hands toward the flames of the nearest candelabrum. An instant before the damage was done, Marie Festetics snatched the little girl away, pulling her back into her chair. Sisi looked at Stéphanie, who giggled as if she hadn’t noticed the near disaster.
Rudolf tried once more to draw his father into discussion. “Additionally, Dr. Freud has some interesting theories on melancholy. He refers to it as depression. He believes it’s an actual physical malady, rather than a choice or a matter of the mood. He advocates a cocaine cure for those who—”
“That’s nonsense,” Franz growled, looking up now, his fork and knife suspended over his plate. Sisi and Valerie exchanged a look—they’d seen this scene play out dozens of times before, on any number of topics. Sisi glanced down at her plate, feeling her appetite recede.
“What is nonsense, Father? That people might suffer from prolonged periods of deep melancholy, against which they are not able to rise up?”
“That, yes. It’s called fortitude. We all face tragedy—that’s life. Through strength of character, and adherence to the performance of one’s duty, and faith in the Almighty, well, one simply must not let oneself become so self-indulgent as to succumb to melancholy and all that. But—”
“It’s not nonsense, Father. It’s very real. It’s not a choice one makes.”
“No, but I refer more to the idea of giving patients cocaine as part of a cure.”
“Have you tried it, Father?”
“Tried what?”
“Cocaine.”
“No, but I don’t need to try cocaine to know that it’s rubbish. How a person could put a substance such as that into his body and expect—”
“You really ought to try something before you launch into such a vehement criticism,” Rudolf said, his lips curling up into a mocking smile. “Otherwise, how can you defend yourself from someone who might say you are being ignorant?”
Erzsi, who was poking at her plate with her fingers, scowling after having been thwarted in her effort to grab the candles, interjected: “Grandmother?”
Sisi turned to the child, grateful for a diversion in the conversation. “Yes, darling?”
“Mother tells me that nobody at court cares for you, and that you don’t care for anyone but yourself and Auntie Valerie.”
Sisi’s mouth fell open as her gaze slid from her granddaughter to her daughter-in-law. Stéphanie flew out of her chair in an instant, lurching toward her daughter and scooping her up into her arms, pressing the girl’s face to her own breast so that any additional words might be muffled. “Bedtime for you, lamb.” With that, Stéphanie nearly ran across the room, holding tight to her protesting, kicking child. Rudolf took a long sip from his drink, not acknowledging his departing wife or daughter.
“You’re not going to see your wife out, or wish your daughter a Merry Christmas?” Franz asked, eyeing his son with thinly veiled disdain.
“Say what you will about Dr. Freud…” Rudolf turned toward his father, ignoring the question. “Even if you won’t acknowledge the advances he makes, you must admit, Father, that we must modernize in the field of science, as well as a whole host of other areas.”
Franz turned back to his plate, taking a long time to chew his next bite before he asked: “Such as?”
“Everything,” Rudolf said, placing his silverware down to raise his hands. “Science, education, our treatment of the mentally ill, our antiquated aristocratic class system, our inequitable tax structure.” Rudolf ticked the topics off on his gloved fingers as he spoke.
“Rudolf, son.” Franz lifted his palm, and Rudolf, surprisingly, fell quiet. “Go to that window and look out on my capital city.”
“I know what Vienna looks like. I don’t need to look out the window to see it,” Rudolf said, his jaw fixing in a tight line.
“Good. Then you know that I have modernized Vienna in such ways as to make us the envy of all other capitals in Europe. Look at the Ringstrasse. And when you are there, stop in at any number of the theaters or opera houses or performance halls, and listen to the world’s best musicians, performing songs composed right here in my city.”
“The arts, the arts, the arts,” Rudolf said, waving his hands. “Fine, so you’ve paid for some splendid buildings and commissioned some nice operas. But what about our future? What good will some pretty paintings do if we don’t encourage people to care about more than just such decadent pleasures?”
“Interesting that you now take such a strong stance against decadence.” Franz threw a pointed glance at his son’s empty wineglass. “You, with your cocaine cures and your gambling debts and your alcohol to palliate your…melancholy.”
Sisi squirmed in her chair as Rudolf absorbed the barb, his cheeks flushing a deep scarlet. “Go to London, Father. Go to Paris. Go to New York. Those cities look to the future! Those cities look ahead to progress. They belong to the aspiring middle classes—the shopkeepers, the students, the merchants. There, people want to be modern!”
“I think that’s enough….” Sisi said, but Franz raised a gloved hand, silencing her.
He spoke now, his clear eyes fixed squarely on his son. “You know my personal motto, Rudolf?” Franz’s tone remained unnervingly calm even as Rudolf’s voice had grown louder.
Rudolf didn’t answer, so Franz said it. “Ich weiss nicht ändern.”
“I do not change,” Rudolf repeated, his lips pressed close together.
“Precisely,” said Franz, nodding at his son. “I hold strong. I keep order. And that has been what has held this empire together. I’ve never been one to go in for fads.”
“Fads?” Rudolf threw his hands up. “Father, the world is changing, whether you like it or not. You may sit at the helm of an empire with a glorious past, but if you so single-mindedly refuse to look ahead to the future—”
“You may lecture me, Rudolf, after you’ve spent forty years laboring to hold a fractious empire together. After you’ve crushed rebellions and restored peace and held on to that peace. Once you’ve ushered in an unprecedented era of prosperity and growth and amity. Once you’ve stared down your own mortality on a field of battle or in the face of an assassin’s blade. Until then…well, until then, stick to your rifles and cocaine cures and salons, and leave the governing to me.” Franz put his fork down with a clatter, signifying that he was done. So, too, was everyone else.
—
Valerie lingered in Sisi’s rooms longer than anyone else, waiting for the others to retire. “I want a word alone with you, Mamma.”
“Yes, dear?” Dinner had been dreadful; Sisi couldn’t remember the last time she felt so weary. And tomorrow would be a day full of state celebrations and mass and feasting. The family, as much as they all dreaded it, would be forced to spend the entire Christmas Day in one another’s company, smiling as though there was so much for which to rejoice.
Valerie fidgeted before her. “I wanted to be sure that…well, that you were telling me the truth before, when you said that you were all right with my news.”
Sisi lifted a hand and traced a finger along her daughter’s cheek. “My darling, it’s as I’ve always said: as long as you are happy, I am happy.”
