There were disasters, tragedies, defeats. With few victories to offset the note of depression, Vienna gradually lost something that was never to return: belief in the invincibility and ordained purpose of her empire. In 1916 she also lost Franz Josef. He went to sleep one night and did not wake up. Perhaps he did not want to. He had served his time and more. He was eighty-six when he slipped peacefully away. He had been the resolute heart of the empire’s ungainly body. When he had gone the empire had little heart left.
Baroness von Korvacs went into deep mourning. She had bravely withstood all the disappointments, all the defeats, but she wept on the death of old and imperial Franz Josef. Ernst was there to comfort her, so were Anne and Sophie.
Anne, married to Ludwig in 1915, when he was dashing and cavalier in uniform, lost him to the Russians in Galicia before she had scarcely begun to know him as a husband. He was wounded and taken prisoner, and Anne returned to live with her parents. Carl had survived so far, but was engaged in unimaginably hazardous warfare with the Italians in the Tyrolean mountains.
They all helped with war work. Sophie visited hospitals and convalescent establishments and frequently assisted with chores that did not require a young lady to have nursing qualifications. She faced up to this kind of work and to every other activity with an energy that was feverish. She also danced, because there were still men, officers and soldiers, who wanted Vienna to be a playground for them when they were on leave from the front. She danced as feverishly as she worked. She knew if she worked hard enough and danced long enough she would wake up one morning and find herself concerned only with Austria and the war, that the past no longer haunted her. She lost weight as she burned the midnight candles. She had the most eligible officers at her feet. She was tender to those who declared themselves in love with her but she could give none of them love herself. Her heart was frozen and would not thaw out. Never, before James, had she been remotely in love. Never had she thought love could be so ravaging, that it could take hold of heart and mind and common sense and reduce them to a state that lacked all reason.
At times she longed and ached for James, the enemy. And James was probably very busy killing her countrymen or her allies. From the way things were going it would not be long before he decimated Austria of all its young men. Then there would be no one left to dance with, no one to help her forget.
Of course, there was the reverse side of the coin. He might be killed himself.
What would be left then?
She received a proposal from a Captain Hans Doerffer early in 1917. He was dark, good-looking and amusing, and like so many of the fighting men talked about everything except the war. He made such a touching impression on Sophie that when he proposed to her in the cab on the way home from the theatre she had a moment of extraordinary aberration.
‘Hans, I’m so sorry,’ she said, ‘but I’m already engaged.’
‘Already engaged?’ Captain Doerffer was puzzled. She had never mentioned it before and she wore no engagement ring. ‘Already engaged, Sophie?’
In the dimness of the cab Sophie said, ‘Yes, but I’ve lost him. To the war.’
‘Oh. I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘I’ve been an idiot.’
‘No, one can’t escape reminders,’ said Sophie, ‘please don’t worry.’
He studied her misty profile. There were no street lights to illuminate her. The lamps went out early these days. The darkness did give her this misty quality.
‘Sophie, may I call on you? When I’m next in Vienna?’
Sophie knew how much most of them needed to fully escape when they were on leave, how much they were aware they could not escape. They could only enjoy brief remissions, when they sedulously embarked on every carousing pursuit known to man. It was they, not the harassed citizens, who kept Vienna’s gaiety alive, they who periodically descended on the capital and demanded not welcoming speeches, not propaganda, not reminders, but amusement. And it was an ungenerous citizen who begrudged them this, who said times were too bad or too serious for anyone, even soldiers, to dance instead of going quietly to bed. It was Vienna which called to the unattached men, for in Vienna there were so many beautiful girls and women, all beckoning like bright fireflies of the night. They, robbed of so many men, were ardent to please those who were left, those who still came when they had precious leave.
To Sophie, Captain Doerffer was a young man. He could have told her he felt old, but Sophie might have capped that by telling him she had lived a lifetime in a few years. They were, in fact, the same age.
She could not discourage his hope, or the chance of her own salvation. He was very likeable, he could in time be the one to unfreeze her.
‘Yes, call on me, please do,’ she said.
‘With luck I should be here again before the year is out,’ he said.
‘I’ll be here. I can’t desert Vienna, though others have.’
‘I’ll take you dancing, Sophie.’
Dancing, she thought. Is James dancing? Yes, if he’s still alive. He’ll be dancing with them all in Paris, perhaps. What else is left but that? Europe is a huge corpse and we who are left must dance around the coffin. I will dance. With anyone.
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘And I shall probably propose again,’ smiled Captain Doerffer.
‘Be careful, be warned. Next time I may accept.’
She said goodbye to him. At home she stood before her bedroom window, her body cold and aching beneath her nightdress. Detached longing had become a very real one. It was like that so often. At times she thought the years of war were healing her wound, only for something to reopen it.
The night did not look as if millions of men were blasting each other into infinity. The sky was a silence, the stars fixations of impervious light in the vast canopy of indigo blue.
‘Where are you, mighty Mars? Are you hurling thunderbolts? Are you destroying greater men than Avriarches? Or are you dallying in Paris, tormenting another woman into loving you? Or are you dead? No, never, for who could destroy you?’
She shivered as ice entered her body. The stars became tiny frozen diamonds.
‘James, dear James. Do you remember Sophie von Korvacs? She is so lonely.’
She received a letter from Major Moeller in November. He was Colonel Moeller now. In January his request for a return to active service was granted, and at the age of fifty-eight he had command of an artillery regiment on the Western Front. He wrote often to the von Korvacs, usually addressing his letters to the baron and baroness. This one he addressed to Sophie. He came to the reason why.
‘The strangest news yesterday. I was at Divisional HQ. Can’t tell you why, you’ll understand. There were other regimental commanders present. One of them. Colonel Huebner, buttonholed me, told me my name had been dropped in his ear last week. One of his batteries shot down a British plane. It landed behind our lines and the battery was cockahoop. Richthofen doesn’t leave the gunners many to bag in this sector. Some of the men were able to pull the pilot clear before the machine went up in flames. He had a badly burned arm but was otherwise all right. Colonel Huebner went down to congratulate his men and to look at what they’d bagged. Burned out by then, but he saw the pilot. Despite his scorched arm the fellow was commendably cheerful. Would you like to know what he said to Huebner? “It’s damned cold and damp on our side, Colonel, so I thought I’d drop in for some of your schnapps, if you’ve any to spare. I’ve an acquired partiality for it.”
‘Damned if it wasn’t our friend James. What do you think of that?’
Sophie stared glazedly at words leaping from the paper. Her hand shook and the words spun. Mars had taken to the air and was unleashing his thunderbolts from the heavens. Oh, Olympus! Oh, dear and precious enemy!
She felt in giddy wonder. He was not dead. Her German allies had him safe and sound, and out of the war.
She read on, hungrily, dizzily.
‘Like to have been there myself. Colonel Huebner thought him a cool devil. Remembering Bosnia I wasn’t surprised. How do I know it was James? Well, it’s an idiot’s game, war, and a funny one. Colonel Huebner took him up to the regimental mess and gave him some schnapps, then asked him how he got his liking for it. And James said, “I shared a very fine bottle once with a friend of mine, Major Frederic Moeller. Don’t know him, do you?” Huebner did, of course, and said so. So James said, “Give him my regards and a message, will you? Tell him that Sophie was right, it was nobody’s business but the emperor’s. Tell him to give her my love, if he can.”’
The giddiness buzzed in her ears and she sat heavily down. It took a few moments before her swimming eyes could focus again.
‘They’d cut away the scorched sleeves of his flying jacket and uniform and given his burns a light dressing. Huebner sent him to the casualty station for better medication and damned if he didn’t walk off as calm as you like while waiting to be sent to a clearing centre. It was dark at that stage and no one picked him up. If I know James he got back to his own lines during the night.’
No, oh, no!
The letter shook again in her hand.
‘I was bitterly disappointed at not seeing him myself. My dear Sophie, I tell you, I’d have shared another bottle with him. Honourable enemies, you know. What else would anyone have done with any friend who dropped in as an enemy?’
Oh, dear God, thought Sophie, this one should have been held safe and secure for me. James, how could you! You could have been safe for the rest of the war. Was it amusing to you, to send me your love and then to escape to fight me again? Colonel Huebner, whoever you are, why didn’t you chain him up, why didn’t you? He’ll fly again and Richthofen will get him. Oh, James, couldn’t you have thought of me just a little?
She gave the letter to Anne and her mother, saying in a flat voice, ‘Isn’t it odd, isn’t it very odd? Here is a letter from Colonel Moeller, with news of James. You remember James? He was shot down and captured by the Germans. And they let him escape.’
‘Sophie?’ said Anne, seeing the pain in her sister’s eyes.
‘No one can survive all through this war, can they?’ said Sophie. ‘Especially an airman. There’s only one airman who can. Richthofen. He’ll get James now, don’t you think?’
The baroness, who had begun perusing the letter, looked up and said, ‘Sophie, there’s nothing we can do for those who fight against us. What little we can do must be for Austria.’
‘I know, Mama, I know,’ said Sophie palely, ‘but why did he escape? He’ll only have to fly again. Does he want to die?’
‘Sophie—’
But Sophie, so bitter, was gone. Anne went after her, caught her in the wide corridor leading to the domed vestibule. Sophie stopped, her face pale, her teeth clenched, her eyes glittering.
‘Sophie, please don’t.’
‘I am not going to cry!’
‘I know, but please don’t be so tragic.’
‘Why did he do it?’ Sophie was distraught. ‘I think of him so much, why doesn’t he think of me a little?’
‘Isn’t it the duty of captured men to try and escape?’ said Anne. ‘Perhaps Ludwig will one day.’
Sophie found calmer breath.
‘I hope he will, darling, I hope he will,’ she said, ‘you deserve that and so much more. You’re a far better Austrian than I am. I’m a traitor, aren’t I? I’m praying for my enemy when I should be praying for my country. Is that unforgivable?’
‘No,’ said Anne, ‘never. When the war is over we can’t still go on fighting each other, can we?’
‘I shan’t have the chance to fight with James. Richthofen will get him.’
She worked and danced more feverishly than ever then. She descended more frequently on convalescent soldiers, who discovered her aristocratic brilliance provided the strangest comfort. But it was comfort, because men who have been shattered by war acquire a sensitive awareness of the unseen wounds suffered by women. They understood every word she said.
‘There, you see, I’ve managed to bring you some wine today. It won’t bring any missing legs back, I’m afraid, but it will help you sing some sorry songs. Well, it is a sorry state we’re in, isn’t it? And, my dear gentlemen, it’s beginning to show. On all of us. The emperor himself wears a very sorry face for one so young. And look at mine. Did you ever see anything sorrier? But listen to this. Misery, you know, is the most honest emotion of all. I’m so miserable myself I’m the most honest woman in Vienna. In the empire. Is there an empire? Well, whether there is or isn’t, I exist very sincerely on my misery. In another six months at the outside I think we can all have a good honest howl together, don’t you? Now, who will sing with me the lament to the fallen angels?’
They laughed. She laughed. They were all smiling as she left them a little later. They watched her go, the green lawn of the convalescent home a carpet for her elegant feet. They did not see the tears in her eyes.
Carl had not had leave for months, not been home for months. He was a major in command of a mountain regiment, fighting the Italians in a hard, bitter slog around the Tyrolean Alps. He wrote less frequently than he had done, and more briefly. The baroness worried about what the war was doing to him, how it was changing him.
‘It’s not a cause for worry, Mama,’ said Sophie.
‘How can you know that?’ said the baroness.
‘It’s never a cause for worry when a man grows up.’
‘Carl is still so young.’
‘He was. He’s now a man. I like him for it.’
Captain Hans Doerffer reappeared in Vienna in January 1918. He called on Sophie. He looked older, tireder, but was just as amusing. And still in love with her. For eight days they either danced or went to the theatre. He wanted her but was neither demanding nor tiresome. He did not flirt with her or worry her. He was glad to be with her, to watch her, admire her and talk with her. He had one advantage unknown to himself. He was a little like James. He was dark like James and he could be talked to, as James could. He liked to listen to her, as James did. Sophie, restless and loquacious, was never still, never silent. In eight short days she found in Captain Doerffer someone necessary to her, someone who could help her forget that Austria was bleeding to death, that the summer of her life had gone a thousand years ago and the winter was endless.
Anne said one evening, ‘He seems very nice.’
Sophie, at her dressing table, said, ‘He’s going back tomorrow.’
‘I’m sorry. None of them stay very long, do they?’
Sophie rose. Anne thought her so thin, so huge-eyed.
‘Anne,’ she said with a brittle smile, ‘we’re going to lose them all, aren’t we? There’ll be no men left in the end. Only Richthofen.’
‘Sophie, don’t.’
‘I’m not bearing up as well as you, am I?’
‘You’re bearing up better than any of us,’ said Anne, ‘going to the hospitals and making yourself look beautiful when the rest of us look very glum. He is still on your mind, isn’t he?’
‘Hans? Captain Doerffer?’
‘James.’ Anne did not know how her sister and James could ever get together again. The Allies were tightening their hold on the Central Powers, and Austria was growing more embittered. The British naval blockade of Europe was strangling Germany and Austria. If Austria was broken beyond recovery Sophie would never forgive James. Or his country.
‘James?’ said Sophie, as if Anne had conjured up the unknown. But she thought oh, let me go, James, let me go. Don’t possess me so, then perhaps I can make Hans happy. ‘James?’ she said again. ‘Who is James?’
‘Someone we both feel sad about,’ said Anne.
‘There’s Ludwig,’ said Sophie, ‘he’ll turn up, darling. And there’s Carl. Let us feel for them. I am proud of Ludwig and Carl. And Hans is worth a thought too, don’t you think? He’ll propose again tonight or before he leaves tomorrow.’
‘Do you want him to?’
‘I must make someone happy.’
‘Unless you love him, Sophie, you won’t make him happy, and you’ll make yourself quite miserable.’
‘Well, the satisfaction of sacrificing myself will ring my misery with a halo. Not many of us have haloes, darling. I shall marry Hans if he asks me.’
Captain Doerffer did ask. On this his last night they had danced until suddenly the strength ran from Sophie. He was concerned and took her home immediately. She recovered on the way and expounded in brittle amusement on him being the only man who had danced her off her feet. He escorted her from the cab to her door and proposed going up the steps. In front of the door, with the dark night shadows about them, Sophie looked into his earnest face. He smiled in hope, for Sophie was smiling too.
‘Do you wish it so much, a wedding?’ she asked.
‘As long as you were there and as long as you wished it yourself.’
‘Then,’ began Sophie and stopped, the silence of the night broken by the noise of a solitary plane. A plane over dark Vienna. They heard it coming from the west, its engine harshly booming and echoing, and because there were times now when the city, for all its traditions of revelry, withdrew into sombre quiet, the machine alone seemed relevant to the pursuance of life and war. Sophie, her face turned up to the echoing black cavern of the sky, was like a woman transfixed. Captain Doerffer saw her expression, one of strange, mesmerized wonder, and realized that she had simply gone from him. She was a dark world away.
So that was how she had lost her hero. He had fallen from the sky, shot out of it, and Sophie was listening to the flight of his ghost.
‘Never mind, Sophie,’ he said.
She did not hear him. She was following the noise of the invisible plane.
‘Sophie, will you at least say goodbye to me?’
She drew a deep breath and came out of the night sky. James would not let her go. He was there, sometimes as a faint but insistent whisper, sometimes as an undisguised longing, but always in possession of her soul. She was sentenced to a lifetime of looking for him, listening for him, hating him and loving him. She could not make Hans happy. She could only say goodbye.
‘Hans?’ she said and lifted her face.
For all his regret and his realization that it would be of no help to him, he kissed her. Her mouth was soft, sweet, but so cold. And Sophie, apart from wanting to make the gesture, felt nothing. Only, after a moment, an impossible imagining of what it had been like when James kissed her on the day she fell into his arms.
‘I think I understand,’ said Hans, ‘it’s too soon, isn’t it?’
‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,’ she said in distress.
‘But I’ll call again,’ he said. ‘In a year, perhaps. If I may, if I can.’
‘A year?’ She wondered how long a year could be.
‘If I may. Perhaps they’ll have gone by then, your ghosts.’
‘I do have them, don’t I?’ she said.
‘Not for ever. A year can work wonders, Sophie.’
But the year lasted less than a month for Hans Doerffer. On the Eastern Front the Russians, despite their revolutionary convulsions, still held their line. They even made the occasional assault. In one desperate Austrian counter-attack Captain Doerffer ran into a stream of bullets and out of Sophie’s life. It added sadness to her bitterness.
‘Mama,’ said Anne on a day when things were going dismally for Austria in every way, ‘do you worry about Sophie?’
The baroness, dejected by so much bad news but still resolutely coping with its effects on their daily lives, looked up from her sewing.
‘I worry about Austria, darling,’ she said. ‘You’re speaking as much about James as about Sophie, aren’t you?’
‘She still hasn’t got over him,’ said Anne. She was a quieter person now. The war made laughter and gaiety very much out of place these days. Her beloved Vienna was grey, food scarce and dear, fuel a constant problem. ‘I think she still has hopes.’
‘Nothing is more impossible now than Sophie marrying James,’ said the baroness. For all her tolerance, even she had begun to feel bitter. ‘She’ll never really forgive him for leaving her, for going off to fight against us. Nor is she the kind to go on loving such a man. She’s much too proud.’
‘Mama, because of the war is that what you want to believe? It isn’t like you to refuse to see the obvious. I don’t think Sophie will marry any man if she can’t have James. She would never really have married poor Captain Doerffer. It’s rather terrible for her knowing James is on the other side. You’d think she’d hate him by now. We’re a funny lot, aren’t we? Not all of us love a man for the best reasons.’
‘You may be right about Sophie’s feelings,’ said the baroness. She bit through a thread. ‘But she and James are both going their separate ways and in a way that makes me doubt if they’ll ever see each other again.’
‘I wish Ludwig were home,’ said Anne. She thought wistfully about her cheerful, easy-going husband. ‘I’d like to have something out of this war.’
She had married Ludwig on a high note of excited love. If only he could come home they might have a child. That would give her a lovely reason for putting up with everything else. There was no reason why the Russians couldn’t send him home. They seemed far more concerned with their revolution now than the war.