Fandom: Elisabeth das musical
Characters: Elisabeth, Emperor Franz-Joseph, Der Tod
Relationship: Elisabeth/Emperor Franz-Joseph, Elisabeth/Der Tod
Elizabeth – Maya Hakvoort. Death – Máté Kamarás.
The letter was small, in a cream-colored envelope sealed with the imperial seal. Elizabeth reached out and opened it before she could stop herself.
Three minutes later, she sat in a chair by the fireplace, gazing at the flames, as if hoping to read something else in them, something other than what she saw, written in ink on cream-colored paper.
Elizabeth knew all was not well between her and Franz Joseph. She smiled bitterly. Not counting her clashes with his mother, his constant mutterings, where it was impossible to tell whether he was blaming his wife or defending her, when in the end everything ended in the old empress's favor. Not counting his long absences and eternal affairs of state. Not counting how he constantly tried to mold her into what he needed. What was right. What was convenient. Elizabeth knew all was not well between them.
But, strangely, she couldn't imagine him cheating on her.
Who, Franz Joseph? The skinny young man who vividly described to her the hardships of being the emperor's wife, who gave her a heavy, uncomfortable chain as an engagement gift, and who always glanced back at his mother?
She might have something to do with this, Elizabeth couldn't help but think. And she immediately dismissed the thought. The person to whom the letter was addressed ruled that out.
Amalia von Wisber arrived at court last season. The twenty-year-old widow, with her husband's fortune and title, immediately captivated Viennese high society. Everyone was delighted with her – even the Empress Mother. On the other hand, despite all the admiration – with her graceful figure, her rosy cheeks, and her studied naivety – Amalia seemed to be on her own.
As if she had come to court not to, as she herself said, ‘take a break and try to live, for such is our duty, even if grief from loss tears us apart,’ but to find a new place for herself.
Now Elizabeth understood what it was.
God, probably everyone did.
Anger, sharp and hot, like the very fire crackling softly before her, rose within Elizabeth. How dare he, she thought. How dare he...
With a quick gesture of her hand, still clutching the letter, she made to throw it into the fireplace. But suddenly she stopped. She turned the envelope over in her hands and held it up to her eyes. She skimmed the text again. And saw something she hadn't noticed the first time in her rage and anger.
The letter, written in the Emperor's name and signed by him, was full of tender sentiments and promises. It beckoned, enveloping, and announced that His Majesty would be delighted to see Madame Amalia von Wisber at a masquerade ball at Schönbrunn Castle on such-and-such a date this year.
Elizabeth knew well what went on at such balls. Everyone knew, no one was embarrassed. The times were ripe for experimentation, and even darker ones, a thought she always consoled herself with. Although she never once took advantage of the opportunities.
It was an invitation, explicit and frank. Signed by the Emperor. And yet...
Elisabeth skimmed the text again. After their engagement, she and Franz Joseph had corresponded for a long time, and then, during his or her travels, until they grew disillusioned with each other and the spark of mutual interest faded completely. Now they hardly exchanged notes, but Elizabeth knew her husband's handwriting very well.
The hand that wrote this letter was not the Emperor's.
This could mean two things. First, Franz Joseph wished to keep his affair secret – at least from everyone but the court. And second, receiving a reply was undesirable.
He couldn't really expect an open expression of her consent, Elizabeth thought irritably. The Emperor of Austria was not one to refuse.
Even before the thought had time to form in her mind, Elizabeth rose and walked to the table. Sitting down at it, she pulled out a sheet of imperial letterpress paper and a quill.
When you know how to draw, it's easy to change your handwriting, she thought maliciously.
A few minutes later, she held an exact copy of the imperial letter in her hands. Everything was there: the compliments, the passion, the confession. The only difference was the location to which Amalia had been invited: Elizabeth had replaced Schönbrunn with Hofburg.
Having sealed the letter, Elizabeth left it on the table in the exact spot where His Majesty's envoy was supposed to pick it up. After taking another look at the writing utensils, the chair, and the fireplace, she slipped out of the study.
She needed to prepare for the masquerade.
The old lizard stepped on her foot. Elizabeth had never liked the imperial secretary, and he generally reciprocated her feelings. But she hadn't expected their confrontation to ever become so sharp.
She stepped aside, moving away from the gaunt courtier, clad in a doublet patterned with silver scales. She quickly glanced at the snake-headed cane in his hand and reminded herself that he didn't know who she was.
Or rather, he thought he did.
She smiled wearily beneath the mask that covered her own face up to her chin.
Getting into the ball was easy. Far more difficult was passing herself off as the person she wanted to be accepted as.
Elizabeth didn't spend long searching for a dress. She needed something revealing enough – not to say provocative – but not luxurious enough to suggest she was richer and nobler than a provincial baroness.
After some thought, she settled on a dark red dress with a black velvet bodice and a low neckline draped in white silk. ‘Not a whore, but ready for anything,’ Elizabeth assessed, glancing at herself in the mirror. She added a black cloak with gold embroidered edges and a mask with a gold pattern, and the gift for the Emperor was ready to be served.
She frowned beneath her mask. The anger and confusion that had gripped her since she'd seen the letter had subsided amid the bustle and preparations for the ball. But in this hot room, amid the candles and glitter, under the gaze of shameless eyes peering at her from faceless faces, she felt the pain and rage rising again.
Elizabeth took a glass of wine from the tray a liveried waiter carried past her and drained it halfway. The leg the snake-like secretary had crushed ached mercilessly. Elizabeth crossed the room, careful not to brush against the women's wide skirts and to keep her distance from the men. The latter, however, wouldn't have dared approach her. Elizabeth felt beads of sweat form on her upper lip. Her dress suddenly felt heavy and tight.
With a quick gesture, she removed her cloak, remaining in a tiara and veil that fell intricately almost to her hips, concealing her long braid. If anything could give her away, it was her hair. Amalia von Wisber had short, blond locks. Tossing her cloak to a passing servant, Elizabeth stepped into the midst of the guests.
He emerged from the crowd, at first unnoticed, but within minutes all eyes were on him.
He wore a green moiré suit: a jacket with velvet lapels and slim trousers. Under the jacket was a gold-embroidered shirt. Three peacock feathers were embroidered in gold thread on his right shoulder. He wore a pair of black velvet gloves. A green silk mask fit tightly to his face, completely covering it. The mask had a sharp nose and high cheekbones.
He made no attempt to hide.
Standing behind the lady in a wide velvet crinoline and the gentleman in a suit covered in sequins from head to toe, she watched the Emperor slowly walk across the room, nodding graciously, bowing, and responding to the respectful curtsies of the ladies and the clicking of the men's heels.
It all suddenly seemed so ordinary to Elizabeth, so familiar, almost boring – a ball, an Emperor, and a meeting that could not be missed.
The wine she'd drunk went to Elizabeth's head. She watched the green-clad figure approach, his motionless face catching the reflections of the flames, as if swallowing them. She wanted to see him, to let him in. The music pounded in her temples like a staccato pain.
Taking a few steps forward, Elizabeth extended her hand.
She didn't say it. And yet, it felt as if the crowd had parted, both to let him pass and to push her away.
Crowds don't like heroes. They like the doomed even less.
Amalia was doomed today. And everyone knew it.
Elizabeth took another step forward and placed her hand in the black velvet-covered palm.
The music flared, danced, and unfurled around her like lace-like bone fans. It rang, drew her in, pressed against the back of her head, clasped its hands at her waist, and looked into her eyes.
Elizabeth didn't recognize her Emperor.
Her cheeks burned, the dance increased in tempo.
She hated Amalia von Wisber for wanting him.
He was hot, impatient, prickly. Insistent and almost rude – but not like always. Elizabeth knew, could predict his rudeness in advance.
This time, everything was completely different.
Before, he had been rude because he hadn't noticed that she was hurt.
Now, he was driving her crazy.
They circled the room, almost wrestling, accelerating, and the music crunched under their feet like the first snow.
...Elizabeth heard the study door slam, the rustle of her skirts.
His fingers were doing a better job.
So much better than anyone could.
Than she could do it herself.
Candlelight flickered on the cheek of the green mask.
Do we really have to be strangers to feel this way, Elizabeth wondered.
His fingers caressed her, penetrating.
She had no name for what was happening to her.
Music was drifting from the ballroom – some kind of bravura march.
He took her between heartbeats – and Elizabeth clutched his hand, which he leaned against the wall above her head.
...Every movement of his hips inexorably brought the denouement closer, and when it was almost upon her, Elizabeth reached for his mask – and pulled it off.
His skin is very fair against the green velvet. His golden hair spills over his shoulders.
Pleasure overwhelms her, and with it, understanding.
Emperor Franz Joseph was never a skilled lover.
‘The letter was real. Does that matter?’
The silence was deafening.
‘You sent the Emperor to Hofburg?’
Elizabeth looked up from her suitcase. She never trusted her maids to pack her personal belongings. Traveling to another continent meant a long voyage, and she was already feeling tired.
She stood up and dusted her hands.
‘I won't commit suicide,’ she said curtly.
Elizabeth turned around. For the first time since the evening at Schönbrunn, she met his eyes.
He looked so young now. Tired, almost confused. Elizabeth walked over and touched his cheek.
‘If the letter was real, then here's my answer…’
‘I think I've only just begun to love life.’
With these words, she turned and left.
A perfectly human laugh followed her.
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