Tasha Alexander - A Fatal Waltz

“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.”

“I’ll commission something from you.”

“I don’t want favors.”

“No favors, then. But if I can assist you, you must let me.” I was determined to find some way to help him. “It’s the least I can do to thank you for arranging a meeting with Herr Schröder.”

“Fine, Kallista, so long as you promise not to secretly fund my success as an artist.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it. You’ve the talent to manufacture your own success. But it never hurts to let a friend help with your luck.”

17 December 1891

Berkeley Square, London

Dear Emily,

Much is happening here. None of it good.

Perhaps a little good. But the bad first. Today I persuaded Ivy she ought to get some air—and we thought it would be fun to find Davis a Christmas gift.

At least, I thought it would be amusing. Ivy was a bit horrified, but rallied to the idea once we’d set out. We had just walked into Harrods when we saw Mrs. Hearst, a dreadful woman and acquaintance of the Taylors, my parents’ friends. Do you remember them? The horrible family I stayed with during last Season? Mrs. Hearst was in town shopping with one of her vapid, utterly uninteresting daughters—I can’t remember her name, not that it matters, they’re all interchangeably dull. As soon as she spotted Ivy, she steered her daughter away and then—can you believe it?—she came to me, pulled me away from Ivy, and told me in a loud voice that it would do me no good to associate with murderers.

I admit that perhaps—just perhaps—my reaction was a bit dramatic. I wrenched my arm from hers and reprimanded her loudly, using some choice words that were, in hindsight, not perhaps the most appropriate for the situation.

Still, I don’t regret it. She’s a toad, and I will not stand by and see Ivy bullied by people like her.

We had to hold our own afterwards, although I’m certain poor Ivy would have liked nothing better than to return home, preferably under the cover of night in a closed carriage. I made her shop instead and bought your butler a gold cigar cutter on which I’m having his initials engraved. I do hope he likes it.

As for the good, it’s not much. Only that Mr. Michaels has asked for my assistance—yes, assistance—on his current project. I told him I would be happy to help, so long as he publicly acknowledges that women should be allowed to be full members of the university. He turned red and tugged at his collar, but he agreed. Primarily, I think, because he knows I have a flair for translation.

I hope your work in Vienna is going well. We are so very much depending upon you.

I am, as always, your most corrupt friend, perhaps becoming more corrupt daily,

Margaret

After days and days the snow had stopped falling, but the sky was gray, matching the slush as it grew dirty beneath the wheels of fiacres. The paltry light that seeped through lingering clouds was absorbed by the city’s buildings; nothing glimmered. Even the electric lights that filled the new Court Theater looked dull to me. Another week gone, and no evidence to exonerate Robert.

Cécile, Jeremy, and I spent the morning at the third-floor studio on Sandwirtgasse that Klimt shared with his brother, Ernst, and Franz Matsch. The three men made up the Känstlercompanie, and together worked on murals for public buildings, many on the Ringstrasse. Cécile sat for her portrait while Jeremy and I watched in awe the artist at work. He wore a long smock, and his thick beard stood stiff as he mixed paints and scrutinized his subject, occasionally reaching up to scratch the brindled cat that sat on his shoulder. I was somewhat distracted, watching the time, because although Friedrich may have said that anarchists do not frolic, Herr Schröder had sent a note inviting me to ice-skate with him. We planned to go to the turreted Eislaufverein, Vienna’s new skating palace, straight from the studio, but my friends would leave half an hour before I did, so they could watch the meeting without drawing any suspicion. None of us felt comfortable with me meeting this stranger alone, even in such a public place.