The Last Prince of the Mexican Empire

by C. M. Mayo

  “Grüss Gott!” Lieutenant Weissbrunn greets her, touching his cap.

  Frau von Kuhacsevich returns the greeting, but coldly. She has heard, through the grapevine—from Tüdos, in fact—that Weissbrunn has requested a transfer. Why did he not tell her? She minded that he did not; she minded very much. Well, he is not a talkative fellow, this ox. He is from Olmutz; that alone would make her dislike him.

  “Hola!” Agustín says. His nursemaid, Tere, holds him in her arms; he was pulling limes off the low-hanging branch. He’s in a white cotton frock and sandals and his legs are tanned.

  “Hola!” Frau von Kuhacsevich answers kindly. She squeezes a chubby knee. “You are going to give the ants and beetles quite a feast.”

  He laughs, and another lime thunks to the ground.

  Frau von Kuhacsevich is intentionally cool with the nursemaid, because she suspects that some hanky-panky has been going on with Weissbrunn. Tüdos, the chef, alerted her. Frau von Kuhacsevich has not yet witnessed anything worthy of report, but she has seen the way those two steal hot little glances at one another.

  Glacially therefore: “Where is the princess?”

  “In her rooms, ma’am.”

  Frau von Kuhacsevich shoots Weissbrunn a look that says—well, she hopes it says, Don’t think I’m not keeping an eye on you two.

  Frau von Kuhacsevich has come to feel protective toward the princess and this dear little boy. Her friendly feelings had surprised her, because at first the princess was so demanding—a bit of a parvenue, really, but in time Frau von Kuhacsevich found that not only was the princess’s etiquette scrupulous but it was very interesting to converse with her. They both spoke French, and between the smatterings of Frau von Kuhacsevich’s Spanish and English and the princess’s admirable efforts to improve her German, they made themselves understood. Father Fischer, he was the first topic of conversation that endeared them to one another. They were both rock sure, if anyone could reconcile His Holiness to His Majesty it was Father Fischer. Maximilian had been absolutely right to select Father Fischer for the mission to Rome, and oh, were he here, what wise counsel he could give in these trying times!

  Unlike Frau von Kuhacsevich’s husband, Princess Iturbide was a willing audience, fascinated in fact, by anything Frau von Kuhacsevich might happen to say. Who favored whom, and how they’d worked together back in Vienna, or Trieste, and what it was like to run the viceregal household in Milan (where they had blackamoors serve the gelato), and why it was that Maximilian always ate those same bonbons, and why Schertzenlechner, Maximilian’s oaf of a chancellor, had left Mexico in a huff. He had a showdown with Monsieur Eloin, who proved, with documentation, that Schertzenlechner—it was true!—had been continuing to draw his salary as a Hofburg valet! “The Big Moo” was what the Germans called Schertzenlechner behind his back, and Princess Iturbide thought that the most amusing nickname, “Apt, oh, very apt!” she said approvingly.

  And the princess was herself a fount of information. She had unending friends in Mexican society; she was frequently off visiting with them. These people mixed with the better class of American colonists (exiles of the vanquished Confederacy, for the most part), and as those people had been obliged to billet officers in their houses, their little soirées more often than not included high-ranking men, some very close to General Bazaine. One had big ears for what they had to say!

  “And what was your father like?” Frau von Kuhacsevich had asked Princess Iturbide.

  “Tall, very tall. And he had red hair.”

  “Did he really!”

  “It was quite red.”

  “Red as a Scotsman’s?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, wonderful. And do you think Prince Agustín will also be redhaired?”

  “I do not think so.”

  “He will stay blond?”

  “For his babyhood, but they grow up, you know . . .”

  Nothing pleased Princess Iturbide more than to talk about her little godson. Prince Agustín was so bright, such a handsome dumpling, and clever as the dickens (and one was going to have to make sure, the princess said severely, that he would not turn out too clever for his own good). Clearly, at not yet three years old, he was showing a talent for languages . . . he could count to twenty in Spanish, and to ten in German, French, Hungarian, and Nahuatl.

  From Princess Iturbide, there was much to learn about Mexico, for instance, that the Emperor Iturbide’s palace was not the Imperial Palace of today but the more compact and elegant palace that is now the Hotel Iturbide, where the stagecoaches arrive and depart. And the princess had many helpful tips about Mexican cuisine, all excellent to pass on to Tüdos. Cuitlacoche, for example, Frau von Kuhacsevich had thought disgusting, on a par with roasted maguey worms, mosquito paste, tacos of ant eggs, and the like.

  “No, no,” the princess had advised her, “you must not think of cuitlacoche as corn smut, but as a kind of truffle.”

  “A truffle!”

  “It is a mushroom.”

  “Yes!” Frau von Kuhacsevich had clapped her hands. “Truffle hunting in the autumn, what joy, oh! You know, once near Innsbruck—” And Princess Iturbide listened to every one of her many happy reminiscences about Bad Ischl and the mushrooms there, the big spicy Herrenpilze that could also be gathered in the Vienna Woods and which were the favorite of Maximilian and oh yes, all the archdukes, they took them sautéed in butter and then simmered in brandy and cream. Franz Joseph, he wanted the broth only, and Sissi, it was a scandal the way she took hers, steamed, no butter.

  “No butter!”

  “Not a drop.”

  They were both women of a certain age, both despairing over the ruin of their figures.

  “I cannot help myself when there’s bread on the table.”

  “I’m that way with chocolate, anything with chocolate in it, I’m done for.”

  “I know exactly what you mean.”

  On her birthday, Princess Iturbide sent Frau von Kuhacvsevich a bouquet of violets in a monogrammed silver vase. For the princess’s birthday, after careful thought, Frau von Kuhacsevich decided on giving her new friend the rosary beads she’d had blessed by His Holiness when she visited Rome with the imperial entourage, en route to Mexico.

  “Blessed by His Holiness!” The princess took in a sharp breath, and her face turned grave. She embraced Frau von Kuhacsevich and kissed her on both cheeks. She then pressed the rosary beads to her heart. “My friend,” she said, “I shall treasure these for the rest of my life.”

  For Christmas, Frau von Kuhacsevich received, in an exquisite silver and polished-bone frame, a carte de visite of Prince Agustín. Proudly, she put it on the shelf in her office, beneath the watercolor of the orchids by Professor Bilimek, and next to the pie basket for the receipts.

  Midmorning, making her rounds, Frau von Kuhacsevich minces along the veranda outside the empress’s rooms, the pendulum of her ring of keys swinging alongside her skirts. She greets the gardener clipping the hedge; she steps around a chambermaid, who looks up from scrubbing the tiles, to answer her mistress:

  “Buenos días, señora Kuhaes.”(Not a one can manage the pronunciation of her name.)

  The laundress with a basket of folded linens.

  Frau von Kuhacsevich thinks to turn around and ask, “Have you put clean bed linens in the room for the Austrian ambassador?”

  “Sí, señora Kuhaes.” A toothless smile.

  “And clean towels for the washstand?”

  “Ahorita, in a little minute.”

  And that one was imported from Mexico City! It is a task for a Hercules to set up an Imperial Household in the tropics. There are no servants to be hired in this village, unless one wants those whose feet have never known shoes and whose hands would not know from Adam what to do with a fork (and whose concepts of cleanliness are best left uncontemplated).

  On the steps to the next patio, Frau von Kuhacsevich must pause to fan herself. Cuernavaca is not the Turkish bath of the hot lands, but more, as Maxi
milian put it, of an Italian May. Pleasant for the men, and Prince Agustín, perhaps, but a trial for those who must encase themselves in corsets and crinolines. Oh, poor Charlotte that her father has died, but Blessed Jesus, what would Frau von Kuhacsevich have done had she been obliged to wear mourning black! The thought simply wilts her. She is afraid her face has gone red as a beet. Her back feels sticky, and under her bonnet, she can feel her scalp sweating. Taking the bonnet off is out of the question: her roots have grown in nearly an inch—in all the rushing to and fro, there has not been a snatch of time to touch up the color.

  An Italian May: in that spirit, for luncheon, Tüdos has concocted an amuse-gueule of olives, basil, and requeson, a cheese too strong to pass for mozzarella, but toothsome. In addition to coffee, he will be making a big pot of canarino: simply, the zest of lemons steeped as tea. Well, here it has to be made of limes— ni modo, no matter, as the Mexicans say.

  Frau von Kuhacsevich makes her way across the blossom-strewn patio to the veranda where the luncheon will be held. Out on the lawn, in the speckled shadow of a Brobdingnagian ficus, the orchestra is setting up their folding chairs and music stands. She has had to ask the conductor, Sawerthal, to move the chairs twice; Maximilian wants the music to be heard clearly, but it must not overwhelm the table conversation.

  Earlier this morning, in her office, she had reviewed the seating chart with the Master of Ceremonies. He had bristled at her interference, but the problem was—Frau von Kuhacsevich tapped her pencil on his chart—it would not do to seat Princess Iturbide to the right of His Excellency Don Fernando Ramírez.

  Sotto voce:“Is there something I ought to know?” The Master of Ceremonies was practically smacking his lips for a juicy morsel.

  Frau von Kuhacsevich ignored him; she was not about to betray her friend by explaining that, in her left ear, the princess is hard of hearing.

  “Better this.” Frau von Kuhacsevich tapped her pencil, making a dot on the paper. “Put Princess Iturbide on the left of the Austrian ambassador.”

  The Master of Ceremonies pursed his lips and exhaled loudly through his nostrils. The intensity of their concentration was that of a couple of generals at their maquette.

  “Well,” he said finally. “If you must move her, it would be easier to switch her with the American’s wife. Here, you see, put Princess Iturbide next to Monsieur Langlais.”

  Frau von Kuhacsevich shot out her bottom lip. One finger alongside her chin, she considered this many-faceted idea. (Monsieur Langlais, the finance wizard . . . man of the moment . . . her husband, for one, suggesting he may yet perform wonders . . . but Maximilian finds his conversation tedious . . . plebeian . . .) Her eyes roved over the chart. The Belgian ambassador here, General Uraga’s wife there, and then the Spanish ambassador and General Almonte (that toad, but he does speak English), the Marquis de la Rivera (trilingual, but an impossible snob) . . . This required the highest degree of Fingerspitzengfühl . . .

  By her silence, she had stuck to her guns.

  “All right,” the Master of Ceremonies said. “I’ll leave Princess Iturbide on the left of the Austrian ambassador. But I cannot leave the botanist where he is.”

  “Professor Bilimek? Oh, put him next to that lady-in-waiting.”

  “Señorita Varela?” The Master of Ceremonies raised his eyebrows.

  “Hmm.”

  “He does not speak Spanish and she does not speak German.”

  “Let them speak French.”

  “Her French is very bad.”

  “Why worry?” Frau von Kuhacsevich threw up her hands. “Professor Bilimek never says anything anyway.”

  Now, on the dining veranda, to the cacophony of the orchestra’s warmup, the yowling violins, the swirling trills of flutes, Frau von Kuahcsevich inspects the table, to ensure that each place setting has its name card according to the chart; each its menu, and its salt cellar with miniature mother-of-pearl spoon; each its array of forks and of spoons and of knives; the lineup of water and wine goblets (a Chablis to begin, then a rosé, then a red, then a sweet wine, and finally, a flute for the signature pink champagne); the knife-pleated serviette folded into the shape of swan; tucked into each, a bread roll (one was missing at Madame Almonte’s place; thank God she checked). Using her middle finger, Frau von Kuhacsevich measures the precise distance of each plate from the table’s edge, and the distance of each water goblet from each plate. Next to General Uraga’s water goblet is a dead bee. She plucks a leaf from a tendril of the nearby bougainvillea and uses that to scoop it up.

  In Milan and in Trieste, she had been able to delegate this task of inspecting the table, but not in Mexico—most certainly not in Mexico. It all falls on her, and sometimes she feels she’s being buried beneath an avalanche. She has been on her feet since breakfast! And after luncheon, while everyone else enjoys a siesta, she, swollen feet or not, still has a long day’s work ahead of her. Right now, she would like nothing better than to go into her bedroom, shutter the windows, and peel off her clothes.

  After securing the extra serviette for Madame Almonte’s place setting, and checking that the laundress has left fresh towels in the Austrian ambassador’s room, Frau von Kuhacsevich permits herself a break. She goes to the garden to look for the princess, whom she finds on the far veranda, sitting all alone in an equipal chair. Out on the lawn before her, the little boy is playing with his nursemaid. At Frau von Kuhacsevich’s approach, a small snake slinks out from behind a potted palm and disappears around the corner.

  “Your Highness!” she salutes her friend.

  The princess answers with a radiant smile and, with a tap of her fan, indicates the chair next to hers. “Do you smell those orange blossoms? I was just thinking of Goethe. Kennst du das Land, wo die Zitronen blühn?”

  “So lovely,” Frau von Kuhacevich says, putting her swollen feet up on a footstool. “I hope you do not mind?”

  “Pardonnez-moi?” Princess Iturbide turns her good ear.

  “I hope you do not mind I put my feet up.”

  “Not at all,” the princess murmurs and continues fanning herself.

  From the middle of the lawn, the bodyguard pitches the prince’s red ball; it sails through the air in a slow, easy arc. Tere, in a wide-skirted pirouette, leaps up and catches it. The prince toddles after her, away toward the stone steps that lead down to the artificial pond. From the edge of those steps, Tere tosses the ball across the lawn, to Weissbrunn. And the dainty scene is repeated.

  “A grand time the young ones are having,” Frau von Kuhacsevich says.

  The princess half rises from her chair and calls out, “Let him have the ball!” Turning to Frau von Kuhacsevich, she says, in a lower voice, “I don’t know about this nursemaid.”

  “Yes, well.” Frau von Kuhacsevich clears her throat. “By the way—are you hungry? We’ve another hour before luncheon.”

  “Famished, now that you mention it.”

  A footman brings a pitcher of limewater and a dish of jicama slices with chili powder and salt. The two fan themselves and, refreshed, chatter just as happily as the canaries in their mosque-shaped cage.

  Out on the lawn, Prince Agustín’s red ball lands in the grass. He wants Weissbrunn to throw it again, but Tere says, clapping her hands. “Time for your lunch.”

  The prince shakes his curls. “No!” He kicks it: the ball rolls over Weissbrunn’s boot, bup, and it roll-a-rolls . . . down the slope of the lawn toward the bricks . . . toward the stone steps down to the artificial pond . . . Tere calls out, “Agustín!” But he toddles after his ball. She gathers her skirts and chases after him as he goes, faster now, toward the steps, and Weissbrunn chases after them both, his saber and pistol clanking. They are all three giggling when—from her equipal chair Princess Iturbide gasps—Agustín tumbles down the steps.

  But they are shallow steps and only a few. Prince Agustín has not even scraped a knee, only banged his arm and had the breath knocked out of him. Tere swoops down and covers him with kisses. Weissbru
nn pats his heaving back. At the ruckus the macaw in its cage begins screeching. “¡Ay, qué susto! What a fright!” Tere says, hugging Agustín tight—but to see his bodyguard’s face twisted with fear, Agustín bursts into screams, and this puts not only the parrot but Princess Iturbide and Frau von Kuhacsevich in a complete kerfluf-fle. The empress comes, trailed by Señorita Varela and Madame Almonte and four chambermaids. Princess Iturbide hovers so close to her godson, the child can scarcely catch his breath. Don Fernando Ramírez and the Austrian ambassador, who happened to be strolling by the pond at the time, look on with stricken expressions. Maximilian, his secretary, his botanist, and his doctor, race in.

  Princess Iturbide, her hands gripping Agustín’s shoulders: “Is it broken?”

  Gently, as the child sobs, Dr. Semeleder takes his arm.

  The empress, with glassy-eyed strain: “Will he need a splint?”

  Dr. Semeleder folds the arm in again and then straightens it out. Agustín has stopped crying. For the first time, the child seems aware that he is the object of intense attention. At some point in the commotion, he has been set on top of the table that, but a moment earlier, held the tray of jicama slices. His eyes widening, he looks at everyone looking at him. It seems he is deciding whether to start crying again. Maximilian squeezes his knee.

  “Little cousin, so! You are quite fine.”

  Agustín laughs.

  “Ha ha!” Maximilian says, which encourages Agustín to laugh more. Frau von Kuhacsevich claps for joy, and the others join in, a sound, all up and down the veranda, like rain pelting a window. From its cage, the macaw lets out another ear-piercing squawk.

  “What?” Maximilian says, turning around to face the crowd. “Would you have him take a bow?”

  A wave of gentle laughter answers him.

  Maximilian then hoists Agustín to his shoulders, and with a long-legged stride, takes off in a bouncing jog across the lawn in the direction of his office. José Luis and Professor Bilimek, holding both his own and Maximilian’s butterfly nets, follow—the one behind the other.