Je T'aime. - Chapter 11: Chapter 11

Wearing a bland wool charcoal gray skirt and Brunswick coat, I exited my room and headed down the stairs. I had a determination to go to a place where I knew I could find solace. In these simple clothes, I hoped to abandon my role as an archduchess for just an hour or so. Hoping not to be noticed, I sneaked out of the palace and headed towards the stables. It was a chilly autumn morning, and a heavy fog laid over the ground. Overnight rain had left puddles over the cobblestones. With the hood of my coat pulled over my head, I entered the royal stable.
The place reeked of waterlogged hay and wet horses. Rainwater dipped off of the edge of the building. From his stall in the very corner, Gladiator whinnied and kicked at the dirt. "Hey, boy," I said to him. "You and I have a special mission. Come on," I led him out of his stall and began to dress him for a ride. With a heave, I lifted the blandest saddle I could find onto him. It was still made of a brilliant leather, as appropriate for a horse of the imperial stable, but it was conservative enough for me and my mission. I struggled to get myself into the saddle gracefully. I wrapped my arms around Gladiator's neck and awkwardly slung myself into the saddle. "Jesus. This is much easier with an equerry to help me," But finally, I was up and mounted.
I rode out of the stable with my head low and my hood pulled up, trying my best to keep a low profile. To my great surprise, with a noble nod, the guards let me through the front gates! From there, I ventured out into Vienna. Riding atop my brilliant white gelding, I observed the slowly waking city. Pigeons marched on the streets, plucking crumbs from the ground and fluttering away from Gladiator's hooves. The streets were filled with carriages and carts. Crowds began to form, dodging piles of manure as they made their way to their destination. Dogs barked and children chased each other around noble statues of long-dead kings. The whole place had a brownish-gray haze, and the air smelled heavily of smoke. I had often travelled on this road before on the way to the royal winter residence, Hofburg Palace, but I had always been enclosed in a carriage. Now I was out in the open, the wind rustling my skirt atop my own horse. The sounds of shouting, laughing, clanging metal and clacking hooves echoed off of the tan and off-white buildings, which were streaked with the black remnants of soot. Standing tall and mighty was the massive spire of St. Stephen's Cathedral, sending the clanging tune of its church bells ringing throughout the city.
As I glanced over to my left, I saw the grand bronze statue of a man in Roman garb on a rearing stallion. He and his steed were decorated in laurels, perched on a podium of rich granite. On his outstretched finger rested a bird, who immediately defecated, landing with a splat of the imperial stallion's raised hoof. The pedestal boldly read CAROLUS VI, paying homage to the king it presented, the god among men that the artist had represented. To the common people he was a distant figure, a man whose face was only hastily drawn in the newspaper, or horribly portrayed in a political cartoon. And here he was in the town square, overlooking the life that he never experienced. Coated in the regalia of Caesar, he was nothing more than a character to these people. But to me, a cloaked girl riding past him on a white gelding, he was more than just a storybook prince. The common Viennese on the streets would have never guessed it, but the girl in the gray Brunswick coat was his granddaughter.
Though he died two years before I was born, I always had a draw to my mother's father. Every time I climbed the stairs to go to my chamber, I saw his portrait. He overlooked me every morning and every evening through every stage of my life- from baby dresses to frocks, riding habits and court gowns. In the beams of day and the glowing candles of night, he gave me a still, regal glance from his form made completely of brush strokes. Suddenly I realized that my lingering could draw attention to me. An Archduchess alone in Vienna could be a dangerous game. I took one last glance at my noble grandfather before continuing my journey through the city.
As I rode on the roads became narrower and narrower, and the general population drew closer to me. It was strange- for all of my eighteen years of living I had been within a carriage, the crowds struggling to catch a glance of my siblings and I. But now they paid me no mind. Gladiator's hooves splashed puddles of brown stagnant water, dirtying his white ankles. From an upper window, a housewife carelessly tossed out her chamber pot, nearly emptying it over my horse and I. Oh, if she only knew who I was! I kept my anger under control and silently rode onwards.
As I neared my destination I saw how the streets held beggars in its dark, drunken corners. I noticed the ladies with skirts hitched up that snuck half-dressed so-called gentlemen into a back door. I noticed the dirty beggars on the cold ground, beckoning the passing well-dressed businessman for his spare change, only for the gentlemen to whack him with his walking cane and spit in his face. In the open squares and brick courtyards the army drilled, moving their muskets in determined steps on the call of a tight-laced officer. During the winters when the court was at the Hofburg, it seemed, the general population was pushed back. But at our summer retreat, the unbridled city had taken over.
Finally, I had arrived at my destination. Attached to the grandeur of the Hofburg was the beautiful Augustinian Church, its exterior a plain off-white that blended in perfectly with the environment around it. It was the church of the court, where I had been baptized and attended my first communion. Besides the royal residences, I had been raised within these walls. It was the place where Isabella and Joseph had been married. I hitched up Gladiator outside and slowly opened the large wooden door to the church. The church itself was attached to a monastery, so I knew it would always be open. I stepped inside the holy place, closing the door behind me and taking off my hood. The tall halls of the church were cast in golden sunlight, reflecting off of the fine metal details of the building. As I walked down the aisle the sound of my shoes clicking against the floor echoed throughout the room. I passed pew after pew, which was usually filled with the most prestigious members of the court. All that was there now was empty space, or maybe the Holy Spirit.
I reached the altar and kneeled before it, like I had done hundreds of times in my life. I glanced over at the golden statue of the Virgin Mary, my namesake and the woman that I had devoted myself to. She was a holy woman, casting her right hand down towards the churchgoers while she cradled the infant Christ in her left. Across the altar from her was Saint Joseph. My brother was named after him. He had blessed my mother's womb with a son. Quietly, I reached into my pocket and fetched my rosary, which had been gifted to me at my baptism. I held them tightly and closed my eyes, bringing the sacred beads to my face. I took a shaky inhale as the sun from the windows warmed my back. "Our most holy lady Mary," I began, whispering into my hands before her. "I humbly ask for your help. I am to be married soon, like all good women do, but this man is not the one who would be good for me. But it is my duty as an Archduchess to my God-serving nation to marry. If I do wed the man my father chooses for me, please, give me the strength to serve him and the dominion we rule," I pressed the crucifix to my lips as I whispered through trembling speech. "I also ask humbly for your forgiveness. I do not wish to marry a man at all. I am ardently in love with another woman."
With my rosary pressed against my lips, I silently began to weep. With every tear that fell from my eyes I quickly wiped it away with my sleeve. I finally admitted it to myself. I finally admitted it to God. I was afraid to leave Vienna because I was in love with Isabella. My brother's wife. I held the rosary up, the sunlight gleaming off of it. "God help me."
Somewhere within the depths of the monastery, the monks began one of their daily Gregorian chants. It echoed off of the walls, bouncing around in the stillness and the silence. Like a holy specter, it seemed to wrap me in a comfort that only God could have provided.
Ave Maria, gratia plena,
Dominus tecum, Virgo serena.
Ave cuius conceptio,
Solemni plena gaudio,
Celestia, terrestia,
Nova replet letitia.
I heard another set of footsteps enter the sanctuary with me, breaking whatever Christian trance I was put under. I opened one eye as I lifted my head from the altar railing. Standing before me was a narrow, pale-faced man in a black robe with a stiff white collar, a crucifix hanging around his neck. He had salt-and-pepper hair that he pulled back in a queue, though it was significantly thinning at the top. I would recognize his thin face and slightly drooping eyes anywhere. "Miss?" he said in his well-meaning but stern tone I knew all too well.
I met his gaze and smiled. "Father Lachner, it's me."
The quiet Jesuit grinned. "Oh! My Heavens, Maria Christina, it's you!" I laughed. Father Hans Lachner was a monk who had taught me my more complex studies in my teenage years. He also never called me Christina, only my proper Maria Christina. Maybe he thought it sounded better, or he just liked the Maria part. He was a monk, after all. "What brings you here, child?"
"Well," I began. "Talks of my marriage have begun. I thought I would come here to get some guidance."
"Ah," Father Lachner replied. "I see. But you came here without your siblings," he dropped his voice to a whisper. "Did you come here all alone?"
I feared being reprimanded for my actions, but I couldn't lie in a house of God. "Yes. I snuck out and rode my pleasure horse here. He's tied outside of the west door. I needed to come here, and I couldn't wait for a carriage to be arranged. So I just saddled up and left."
Father Lachner frowned. "Being a lone lady in Vienna is dangerous. I can't condone that, but at least you came here, of all places."
"Oh, Father," I begged. "Please don't tell my mother."
A slight smile formed on his face. "Maria Christina, I'm a priest. Keeping secrets is my bread and butter. Besides, she can't get you in trouble for going to church, now can she?"
"I suppose not," I said.
Father Lachner and I sat down on a pew together, and I told him everything about my upcoming marriage. The only thing I left out was my affection for Isabella. Like I had convinced myself since I had met her, I told him that my admiration towards her was purely platonic. Father Lachner's entire demeanor was soft and kind, and after the argument I had gotten in with my biological father, I desperately needed the support. At the end of my long-winded explanation, Father Lachner said to me, "I do hope that your father comes around and lets you marry Albert. I've met him before under this roof and he is a good man, from what I can tell. But listen to this when I tell you, my child. If the decision is made and you are to marry Bendetto, you must go with grace and marry him with courage. I will assure you that God will be with you the whole way. And," he paused to lower his voice and whisper nearly in my ear. "If he mistreats you in any way, you just come to me. I'll find a way to get you a divorce."
"Really?"
"Really," Father Lachner placed my rosary in the palm of my hand and closed my fist around it. "I gave this to you when you were a tiny, tiny baby. You were such a giggly little thing, with your big blue eyes. And that's when your Mama named you Maria Christina Johanna Josepha Antonia. I gave you this rosary, and from then on you became a child of God. I have faith in you and everything you do. I set out to educate you to be the best royal lady possible, the best version of yourself. When you hold this rosary, remember that you're like a daughter to me."
I glanced down at the golden cross in my hand, decorated with pearls and pink stones. I looked back up at Father Lachner, who was smiling nostalgically. "How old would Magdalena be?"
"Eighteen. I'd like to think she'd be a lot like you," Father Lachner took out the picture of the pre-teen girl that he kept in the deepest pocket of his robe. Magdalena was a starving orphan girl who Father Lachner had adopted as a toddler, and we were good friends while he was my teacher. That was until she grew ill and died at the age of twelve, six years ago. Father Lachner quickly put the drawing away again. "Well. We best get you back to your mother before she starts to worry. I'd hate to let you ride home all alone again, lest something happen to you. Would you mind if I accompanied you?"
"No, not at all."
I waited for Father Lachner atop my white Arabian in front of the church. Soon he joined me, riding a rather plain-looking black mare with a white blaze down her nose. We pulled into the street, trotting side by side towards the city center. "That's a beautiful horse. What's his name?"
"Gladiator. He served me very well at the hunt to celebrate the wedding. I beat Albert in a race, fare and square," I beamed, remembering my triumphing victory.
"Speaking of the wedding," said Father Lachner. "How are your brother and his wife getting along? Any babies to baptize soon?"
I replied, "I think they get along well. Joseph does love her very much. But Isabella seems afraid of childbearing. She thinks that Joseph will be upset if she has a girl."
Father Lachner sighed. "Well, the first one is always the hardest. But your mother's first child was a girl. Her first three were girls! But with enough persistence, the boys come. And, although for royal purposes it's not preferred, I'm sure Joseph would love his daughter just as much as he would love his son."
"I suppose," I replied.
"You would love your niece just as much as your nephew, wouldn't you?"
"I would, yes."
"Then there you are! I've christened many, many royal babies. If the parents are young and fruitful, like your brother and his wife, then having a male heir will not be a problem. With both husband and wife coming from such fruitful families, I would expect many little Archdukes and Archduchesses on the way."
As we passed onto an open square near the statue of my grandfather, a woman came rushing into the street towards Father Lachner, holding up her skirts above the muddy ground. "Oh, Father!" she cried out, nearly flinging herself onto Father Lachner's horse.
Though I recoiled, Father Lachner graciously extended his hand. "Tell me, good woman, what's the matter?"
The woman took Father Lachner's hand, clinging to it desperately. "You are a man of God, correct? Please, please help me. My little child is dying of sickness. I need someone to bless her. Please, do come quick. I have not been the most virtuous woman in my life, but I-"
With a simple movement of his free hand, Father Lachner silenced the woman. "It doesn't matter. Please, lead the way. Take us to your child," the woman began to walk at a hurried pace eastward into the city. I gave Father Lachner a glance. "Come, Maria Christina. I'm not leaving you behind. It's a good experience for you, anyways." He turned his horse and began to follow the woman. I shrugged and moved Gladiator onwards.
The woman led us down a few dark and narrow streets where we had to go single-file to be able to fit through. The streets and buildings were dirtied with the filth of human and animal waste, and rats scurried about freely. Leaning out of windows and doorways were the people of this street, dirty and dressed in rags. They stared down at Father Lachner and I with some sort of violent fascination. I felt horribly out of place here on my crisp white horse in my clean and ironed clothes. With dozens of pairs of eyes on me, I felt as naked as Lady Godiva.
"Here, Father. It's here," the woman motioned to a house, the stucco flaking off of the stone walls. On the ground floor was a tannery, and the entire street reeked horribly. We hitched our horses outside and followed the woman into the tannery, which was filled with half-clothes sweaty workers. How I wished I had brought my pomander with me! I braved the stretch and followed the woman to a set of narrow, twisting stairs set into the wall. "She's just through here."
The woman went up the stairs first, holding up her skirts so as to not trip on the steep wooden steps. Father Lachner motioned for me to go in front of him. Following the woman, I lifted my skirt as well. As we turned the rounded corner of the stairs I could see Father Lachner staring at the wall, avoiding his eyes. I glanced down at my own shoes as to not trip. They were perfectly fitted to me and made of black leather with a row of tiny bronze buttons. The woman's shoes, however, were old and torn, made of flat brown felt and an iron buckle. Her stockings, too, were plain and had stitch marks where they had been previously repaired. Mine were a crisp white, with a decorative floral clock running up each ankle.
"Do tell us your name, Madame," said Father Lachner as we trudged up the stairs.
"Klaudia," replied the woman. "And my daughter's name is Dorothea. She's four years old. A terribly sweet thing."
My heart dropped. Dorothea. The little girl that rushed up to Isabella that day, almost getting herself killed by the guards, less than two weeks ago. Now she was dying. Finally, we crested the top stair and were spilled into a tiny, crowded apartment. There were two windows that let in the only light in the entire space. A fireplace with a few cooking pots held the ashes of a dead fire. A table and two chairs by the window were draped with fabric. Sewing supplies were strewn all over the room. The walls were the same stone texture as the outside. In the very back of the apartment was a tiny wood-framed bed, where a little child lay under a hand stitched quilt. "Mama?" called out the little girl.
"I'm right here, Dori. You have some visitors!" she turned to us. "Please ignore the mess. I work as a seamstress."
"Visitors?" the little girl said, struggling to sit up in bed. "I like visitors."
Father Lachner came and kneeled by Dorothea's bedside, holding out his hand. "Hello, Dorothea. My name is Father Lachner, and this is my pupil Maria Christina. How are you feeling?"
"Tired," said the girl. She placed her hand in Father Lachner's. The girl looked miserable- her face was pale, her eyes sullen. She was only clothed in a thin chemise, her light brown curls laying across the pillow. "Really tired. But my Mama takes good care of me."
Klaudia sat down on the bed and began to pet her daughter's hair. "Do I, Dori?" Klaudia's eyes were beginning to fill with tears.
The little girl nodded. Slowly she reached over to her bedside table and grasped a small wooden carving of the Virgin Mary. Her eyes were heavy, and they kept flickering closed. Father Lachner smiled as Dorothea held the figurine. "Dorothea, I hereby bless you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit," he gently touched his fingertips to the girl's forehead, heart, and both of her shoulders. "May God keep you in his hands in the Palace of Heaven. Blessed be thy as a child of God. Do you renounce all of your sins?" The girl was silent, but she nodded. "Good. May the Lord bless you and keep you, now and forever. Amen."
Dorothea struggled to keep her eyes open. "Rest, my dear, rest," beckoned Klaudia.
Dorothea closed her eyes again, taking a relaxing exhale. "Amen," she whispered.
"Oh, my baby," Klaudia sobbed, collapsing her face into the quilt beside her child.
Father Lachner held his hand over the little child's nose. Not satisfied, he pressed his fingers to her wrist. "I'm sorry, Klaudia. May your daughter rest in peace," he lifted the quilt over the little girl's face. "The children are always the hardest."
I forced my tears down as I watched this poor creature weep over her only daughter in this tiny, dingy apartment. Would it be any different if this was Duchess Klaudia and her tiny Lady, crying in the grandest state bedroom in an artisan palace? Was a mother's grief this universal? I prayed that I would never have to know.
"Klaudia?" I asked. The poor woman who stood before me looked up with red, wet eyes and flushed cheeks. "Here," I took off my earrings, made of silver and sapphires, and placed them in her hand. "Take these. Sell them, keep them, whatever you want to do with them. But they're worth quite a lot. And if you ever need a hot meal or a roof over your head, you come to Augustinian Church and I will meet you there."
Klaudia's brow lowered in confusion. "Oh, you mustn't. These are beautiful. Don't you have bills to pay?"
"Not particularly. My mother is the Empress."
Klaudia's mouth fell open in shock, and she fell into a curtsey. "I didn't recognize you, Your Highness. Please forgive me."
I smiled, instructing the mother to rise. "No offence taken. I wish you the best, Klaudia. Until I see you again."
With a good chunk of money in the hands of a poor grieving mother, Father Lachner and I left in high spirits. "The most valuable trait in a good Christian is charity. I'm proud of you, Maria Christina."
"Thanks," I replied. We rode in a blissful silence until we reached the front gates of the palace. I turned to Father Lachner. "Let's hope I don't get in trouble with my mother."
Father Lachner smiled. "If you do, just tell her you were with me. How much trouble can you get into for going to church?"
I shrugged. "Not much, I suppose."
"I'll see you Sunday at Mass, correct?"
"Like always."
"Alright then. Farewell."
"Bye!" With that, Father Lachener turned and began to ride back towards the church, while I entered the palace gates and tried to get to the stable as best I could undiscovered. The courtyard was relatively empty, and the stables even more so. I took off Gladiator's tack and turned him out to the pasture.
Just when I thought I was going to leave undetected, I heard a voice from behind me.
"Christina, where have you been?"
Without turning, I replied, "I went down to the church to talk to Father Lachner. It's hard to get good advice when we're not at Hofburg."
I knew the voice without turning, but I did anyway. It was Albert, sweaty after a ride. He put his hands on his hips. "Advice about what, if you don't mind me asking?"
"Marriage, childbearing, among other Archduchess things."
"Ah," replied Albert. Curiosity tinged at the edge of his voice, but he didn't ask anything else. "You better get back inside and change out of those riding clothes before your mother realizes you're gone."
"That was my plan," I said finally before hurrying back to my chamber.
That evening, I took a bath. I had myself convinced that the dirtiness of that tannery had made me stink. With the great privilege of the daughter of an Empress, I sank into steaming water fragranced with sweet tonics and oils. With every pass of the sponge over my skin, a thick trail of foamy suds reminded me that I was washing away the stench of that place and the illness of little Dorothea. It was strange to think about- less than two weeks prior she was a happy girl, running up to wrap Isabella in a grateful hug, her little hands grasping the fine silk skirt of a Princess. But now she only held a wooden Mother Mary as she slipped into the world of the dead. And her mother, the seamstress, seemed to manage to raise her all alone. It was not an ideal life, no, but at least they had a bed to sleep in and food to eat. Remembering there was only one bed in the apartment, I assumed both mother and daughter slept in the same bed. But now the mother slept alone, with only a pair of earrings and a handful of memories to remember her little Dori.
My mother herself had lost three little children before they were even Dorothea's age. One was named Maria Elisabeth, my mother's firstborn, who had died at the age of three. Between Marianna and Joseph there was another called Maria Carolina, who died at just over a year old. The last one was also named Maria Carolina, born between Leopold and Johanna, who died on the day of her birth. But Mama never talked about these children. I barely remembered them. There was a memorial painting of them in the West Wing but I never paid it much mind. Mama even reused their names. Her living Maria Elisabeth, my dear sister Liesl, was seventeen, and the living Maria Carolina eight. Klaudia wept over her deceased daughter. But Mama, it seemed, pushed them aside and replaced them with another baby. But my question was: why?
I dumped a pitcher of water over my head to wash the soap from my hair, hoping it would wash the cloudy thoughts from my mind as well. I sunk down deeper in the water, letting the surface gently lap against my chin. I plugged my nose and went under the surface, water rushing into my ears. The darkness and silence of the water was somehow comforting, but the strain in my lungs told me I had to come up for air. I obliged and resurfaced, wiping the water from my eyes. My fingertips were pruned and water dripped from the tip of my nose.
Bathing was strange. At court we didn't do it very often, as too frequent bathing was bad for the health, but I knew I did it more than the average country folk. It was very vulnerable practice to me. I was completely naked, and my hair was all of the way down. Anyone who came in this room would be with me in my purest, most natural form. Sitting here in this bathtub, I was no Archduchess. The elaborate court gowns, fancy hairstyles, and flashy jewelry had been taken from me. The only remnant of my heritage was the blue blood that pulsed through my veins. Every other part of me was like any other girl. But why was I born into this? Why wasn't Pia, or Klaudia, or Dorothea, or Magdalena? I hardly thought I was anything but a philosopher when I questioned this, but yet, there wasn't an answer for me.
Trying to distract myself from thought, I carefully rose from my bath and reached for the towels that were folded neatly on a chair next to the tub. With water dripping onto the floor, I wrapped myself in one of the towels. My skin grew goosebumps as I met the cold air. I wrapped the towel around my torso, the top edge just below my armpits and the bottom just above my knees. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Curiously, I looked like the angelic paintings of Hellenistic women that hung in the great halls of this palace. Curved, soft, natural, with a delicate plumpness that indicated a good diet. Why, I wondered, did the heavy skirts and boned stays of court gowns hide such natural beauty from the world? Nakedness was hand in hand with sin, I was told, but was it not God's own creation, His own personal gift to humanity?
I sighed. My nudity was for no one to appreciate but myself and my husband someday. Until then, it had to be masked behind layers of linen, silk, and lace. I slipped on my chemise, the first layer to hide practically all of me from the world again. To me, the curve of the waist or the slope of the shoulder was more beautifully feminine than bows and frills could ever be.
Maybe I was more of a woman than I ever should have been.