The Accidental Empress (65 page)

You included no information in your last correspondence as to when you plan to return to Vienna. I will be so bold as to offer a piece of unsolicited advice on that matter; but I will do it with the words of our favorite philosopher, so as not to risk arousing your anger:

“Things which matter most must never be at the mercy of things which matter least.”

Your most faithful and devoted servant,

J. Andrássy

Sisi folded the letter and tucked it back into its envelope. She knew the quote and knew what he meant: Andrássy was urging her back to court. Back to her role as empress and mother. And wife. She had confessed to him, in her last letter, that the thought of returning to Vienna brought on feelings of panic and desperation. And yet, he still encouraged her to return.

Sisi asked Ida to bring her paper and ink and she sat at her desk to begin her letter. Slipping off the heavy rings that weighed on her fingers, she began: “Andrássy.”

I love to hear you write about Budapest. I think I shall have to agree with you on one account: that I spend next spring in that portion of the empire. I remember the magic of welcoming spring to Budapest, and it’s an awakening that I wish to witness again.

Sisi already knew which quote she would share with him; it had popped out at her, spelling Andrássy’s name across her mind when she had beheld it.

I found this in Goethe last night and thought of you:

“The world is so empty if one thinks only of mountains, rivers and cities; but to know someone who thinks and feels with us, and who, though distant, is close to us in spirit, this makes the earth for us an inhabited garden.”

Sisi paused. Was she too bold in her selection of the quote? Would Andrássy think it strange—her confession of how deeply she valued his correspondence? She hesitated, tapping the paper with her finger, considering whether to tear this paper in two and begin a new letter.

Just then, Ida burst into the room, tugging Sisi’s focus away from the letter. “Empress Elisabeth!”

“Ida? What is it? Goodness, you startled me.”

The maid panted, her tall, lean figure impossibly erect.

“Heavens, Ida, what is the matter?”

The maid walked forward, a small piece of paper quivering in her hand. “Empress, it’s a telegram. From Vienna, from the emperor.”

“A telegram?” Hands trembling, Sisi reached for the paper, reading the hastily typed lines. She lowered the paper, looking into the eyes of her maid.

“Tell Marie,” Sisi said, rising from the table. “Begin packing my things. We must leave today.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Ida performed a quick curtsy before sweeping out of the room.

Sisi looked down at the paper once more, reading the last bit aloud to the now empty room.

“Please come home, at once STOP We are at war FULL STOP.”

War had been declared by her husband, and even now Austrians were exchanging gunfire with the joint forces of the Prussian and Italian armies. Prussia, having grown more belligerent over the past decade, had been challenging Austrian supremacy in Central Europe since the time of Maria Theresa. But now, with Prussia’s dangerous new allegiance with Italy, along with its flagrant disregard for other German duchies and kingdoms—lands that Franz had vowed to protect—Austria could no longer sit idly by.

Sisi’s bedroom back in Schönbrunn Palace, however, showed no signs of the war. The room was immaculate: fresh flowers spilled out of the porcelain vases, the mantels were free of dust, the windows were ajar, allowing in a balmy breeze and notes of faint birdsong. On her bed sat a little book, the only item out of place.

Its title was written in Hungarian. Sisi riffled through the pages, noting that it was an anthology of Hungarian poetry. A small card slipped from the front cover of the book and Sisi opened it, intrigued.

You are correct to appreciate Goethe, but our Hungarian poets have earned their place alongside the Germans.

I look forward to hearing your thoughts.

Your devoted and faithful friend,

J. A.

Was Andrássy back at court? The thought caused Sisi’s heart to knock against her chest, and she placed the book down on her bedside table. How ludicrous, she chided herself. Her kingdom was at war, and all she could think about was the fact that Andrássy might now be under the same roof? That she might be able to see him—and as soon as that very evening! Just like that, her anxiety at having returned to court skittered aside, replaced by excitement. Even hope.

“Franziska,” Sisi called aloud, listening for the clip of her hairdresser’s footsteps in the adjacent rooms.

“Yes, Empress?” The wiry woman peeked her head in from the drawing room.

“We must begin dressing now.”

“But Majesty, it’s only three o’clock in the afternoon.”

“I know what time it is. But I must look my best for dinner.”

That evening Sisi took her husband’s arm, noting the relief in his expression as she did so. “Keeping up a fine front, right?” she said, whispering to Franz, her head cocked sideways. “During wartime especially.”

“Thank you, Elisa . . . Elisabeth,” Franz said. Worry tugged hard on his features, stitching his eyebrows close to one another in a permanent scowl.

“In we go,” she said. Franz nodded.

Escorted into the Spiegelsaal by her husband, Sisi had to temper her delight when, upon entering the glittering hall, she spotted Andrássy’s tall outline in the corner of the room. His back to her, Andrássy stood in the midst of a conversation with a short, thickly built man. Deák stood nearby, listening on, but Sisi did not recognize Andrássy’s other conversation partner. Andrássy turned only when he heard the emperor’s entrance announced. He, like the rest of the crowd assembled in the hall, bowed to the imperial pair.

The fighting so far had been far away, in distant lands with barely recognizable names, and yet, the group assembled for dinner that night seemed to buzz with nervous tension. Andrássy alone seemed cool, even merry.

“Empress.” He crossed the room and bowed before her. He wore an immaculate suit, and his wavy hair was longer, more unkempt, than the last time she’d seen him. His eyes held her now, his expression vibrant, direct, hinting at mischief. And perhaps they were entangled in some mischief, the two of them, with the amount that they’d been writing.

“Count.” Sisi’s voice came out quietly. How funny that, now seeing him in the flesh, she felt shy, even formal. This, after their correspondences these past months had held pages and pages of private thoughts and candid confessions.

“You look quite recovered, Empress.” Andrássy stared at her a few moments longer than was proper, but no one noticed. The crowd had assembled around the emperor and the new courtier, whom Sisi had still not met.

“Thank you, Count. You look nice as well.”

“I said ‘recovered.’ Who said anything about you looking nice?” Andrássy winked, and she couldn’t help but smile, unaccustomed as she was to such irreverence from a courtier.

Sisi looked stunning tonight and she knew it. Even Franz, irritable and skittish, had been momentarily taken aback upon first seeing her.

She had selected a lightweight gown of ivory-colored silk, with small rose-colored flowers stitched around the neck and sleeves. A matching belt cinched the dress around her famously narrow waist. She wore her hair loose, with just a few pieces pulled back off her face. Franziska had woven strands of pearls and wildflowers into her curls, and she had rouged her cheeks and colored her lips.

“May I escort you to your place, Empress?” Andrássy offered his arm, and she reminded herself to move slowly and gracefully, the cool empress, as she accepted it. Inside, she was teeming.

“Who is that man with whom you were speaking, the one to whom Franz now speaks?” Sisi angled her chin toward the new face.

“Friedrich Beust,” Andrássy answered. “Minister of Saxony. Or, I should say,
former
minister of Saxony. He, like so many other leaders of the small German duchies, has been overrun and driven out by Prussia. Beust hates Bismarck—and the whole brutish Prussian government—perhaps even more than your husband does.”

Sisi nodded, studying this new man named Beust: his thick, square frame, the way he spoke with his hands, like a conductor pulling the attention of those around him into the song he led. She could tell that Franz was taken with him; he looked at Beust with the same captive stare with which he’d once looked at her.

Sisi took her place at the opposite end of the table from her husband. Between them sat Sophie, appearing irritable and fidgety in a pumpkin-colored gown. Beside her sat the new Saxon nobleman, Beust, and across from her was the aged minister von Bach. To Franz’s right sat Count Alexander von Mensdorff-Pouilly, the foreign minister and a handsome young man with a mustache and parted dark hair. Sisi had heard that he was a distant relative of England’s fat Queen Victoria. Grünne sat beside the foreign minister, and two cardinals also joined the party. Andrássy had somehow found himself in the seat immediately to Sisi’s left.

Inside the palace the air was warm, and the mood at dinner was tense. Sisi, having been briefed by Herr Lobkowitz during the hours she’d spent prepping her toilette, knew why. To date, the Austrians had met Prussia and its allies in battle four times. Three of the four campaigns had been, technically, Austrian victories. Yet Franz was dissatisfied. Victories that should have been easy and decisive had proven to be the opposite. Austria was sustaining casualties at an alarmingly high rate. And the most recent battle, fought just a day earlier at the Bohemian town of Gitschin, had been a victory for the Prussians. If this pattern continued, the Austrians would soon run out of supplies. And men.

“What is most troubling to me is how ill prepared they look out there.” Beust smoked throughout dinner.

Franz made to answer but Sophie cut him off. “Anyone would look ill prepared next to Bismarck. The man is a warmonger.”

Beust shook his head. “Not only a warmonger. A planner. He’s been preparing for battle since he was named chancellor. There is something to be said for being well prepared, Archduchess. Even if I do hate the man.”

Franz nodded at Beust but Sophie had a retort, which she offered in a brusque tone. “We are the Austrian Empire. We shall prevail.”

Sisi discerned quickly over the course of the dinner discussion that there existed two opinions on the progress of the war. Sophie, with dismissive utterances to her son and condescending smirks toward Beust, betrayed no alarm at Prussia’s speedy mobilization and superior weapons.

Beust, to Sisi’s incredulity, disagreed openly. And, more surprisingly, the newcomer to court was not cowed by the archduchess. Beust made his concern plain, stating to Franz that a change in strategy was needed, and quickly. “The Prussian guns are mowing us down before our men even have time to reload.” Beust looked at Franz throughout the entirety of dinner, his eyes avoiding Sophie. “We must modernize our arms, Majesty, I entreat you.”

“They have better rifles, I’ll grant that. But our cannons are better,” Franz said, looking to his mother for her agreement.

“Indeed they are.” Sophie waggled her fleshy index finger, like an approving governess after her pupil gave the correct answer. “And don’t forget, we have the Austrian cavalry in our forces.”

“I doubt that some well-trained horses shall be enough to compensate for the deficit in men, trains, and gun power.” Beust lowered his eyes, sensing that he had pressed up against the outer limit of their patience. When he spoke now, his tone was quiet. “Bismarck’s got more troops at his fingertips than anyone else in Europe, even Napoleon the Third.”

“Speaking of Napoleon, have we had any word from Paris this evening?” Franz turned to Grünne.

“Not yet, Your Grace.”

“Napoleon will come to our aid before too much longer.” Franz wiped his mustache with a napkin and spoke in a tone of strained optimism. “Gentlemen and emperors shall always side together against belligerent, brutish upstarts like Bismarck.”