Maria Theresa had sixteen children, and her son the Emperor Leopold Second seventeen; so the Austrian imperial family is a large one, aside from the numbers of foreign princes in Vienna who are related to the house of Hapsburg-Lorraine. But except on one or two state occasions in the course of the winter these distant connections rarely saw either Franz Joseph or Elizabeth. Absorbed in cares of state and caring for little but his shooting trips in later years, the Emperor led almost as solitary a life as his wife. When they were together with their children, the Empress always strove to make these reunions as happy and cheerful as possible, as if to make up in some degree for the family life her long absences deprived him of. They would spend long cosey evenings on the terraces or by the fireside, and Rudolf would often join the party, or, if the Emperor were busy, Elizabeth would entertain herself with Marie Valerie and some of her ladies-in-waiting. The court in general, however, kept aloof from her. Her manner was cold and forbidding to those she did not like, though her intimate companions had the deepest love and admiration for her and she was worshipped by her servants, none of whom was too humble to share her sympathy and interest.
One morning in Vienna it was learned that one of Elizabeth’s maids had died during the night, and very harsh comments were made on the fact of the Empress having been seen riding in the Prater on that very same afternoon. It was not told, however, that she had spent the whole of the previous night at the dying woman’s bedside, and it was only when death had ended the maid’s sufferings that the Empress had gone out into the fresh air.
Nature endowed Elizabeth with great beauty, a noble nature, and a good mind; fate gave her wealth and the most exalted position a woman can occupy, and she seemed to have been destined for a life of ease and happiness. Perfect as she seemed in outward appearance, however, her character was full of contradictions. She loved nothing so much as freedom and solitude, yet when forced to appear in public, no princess in Europe could equal her for grace and majesty. Simple and economical in her own tastes and habits, in many respects she had no idea of money, as, for instance, when she furnished her cousin Ludwig of Bavaria with enormous sums to gratify his passion for building palaces. Her generosity was boundless, and wherever she went she scattered gifts and money broadcast. She never followed the freaks of fashion, yet her slender figure was the delight and envy of modistes. She dressed as simply as any of her attendants, but whatever she wore it was impossible to conceal her inborn dignity and air of distinction. Her favorite costume for every-day wear was a short, close-fitting skirt with loose waist, and she never put on her elaborate court dresses except when absolutely necessary, though even these always bore the stamp of her individuality. In her later years she was rarely seen in anything but black or white; on a few special occasions she would wear light gray or lilac, but never bright colors. Her hair never lost its beauty, though before her death it began to show a trace of silver here and there,—much to her annoyance, for she had a horror of growing gray. When loosened, it fell far below her knees and enveloped her like a mantle. She used to have it brushed for hours every day and often grew impatient of the trouble it caused her.
“My hair tires me,” she said one day to her Greek teacher, running her hands through its waves as if to relieve herself of a burden, “it is such a weight upon my head.”
“It is Your Majesty’s crown!” was the courtly answer.
“But not so easy to remove as the other kind of a crown!” she retorted with a melancholy smile.
Another time she declared impatiently: “I am a perfect slave to my hair! I think I shall have it all cut off sometime.”
But remarks such as these were made only in moments of annoyance and weariness. As a matter of fact, she was very proud of her magnificent tresses. It was almost the only sign of vanity she ever displayed.
On the thirty-first of January, 1889, a terrible affliction befell the Emperor and Empress in the sudden and violent death of their only son. The tragedy of Mayerling is well known in its main points, and hundreds of different stories have been told concerning it, but the real circumstances of the affair are wrapped in impenetrable secrecy, and perhaps it is just as well if what the King of Belgium wrote to his brother, the Count of Flanders, is true.
“Any report,” he said, “is better than that the real truth should be revealed.”
All that is known with certainty is that the Crown Prince was found dead in his bed with a frightful wound in his head at his hunting lodge at Mayerling, near Vienna, where he had been spending a few days. In the same room lay the body of a young girl, the Baroness Vetsera, with whom he had been in love. It was difficult to believe that both had committed suicide, and there are facts which seem to indicate that Rudolf may have been murdered. The rest is all conjecture.
The unfortunate Prince was extremely popular with all classes and had many brilliant qualities, but after his marriage he developed habits which caused some anxiety as to his future. There was one person, however, who never lost faith in him, and that was his mother. She had wisely and carefully prepared him for the position he was to occupy in the world, and it was to her training and influence that he owed much of his early popularity. All Vienna was paralyzed with horror on the cold gray morning when word was brought from Mayerling of the Crown Prince’s death. No one knew just what had happened. No details of the affair were published and the confusion was indescribable. It was thought best to convey the news at once to the Empress, though many feared the shock might destroy her life or reason. As events proved, however, her mind and nerves were stronger than those of most people. She seemed stunned at first and turned away without speaking, her face drawn and colorless, but collecting herself she inquired in a dry, unnatural tone where her son was. Then her thoughts flew at once to her husband, who as yet knew nothing of what had happened. No one had the courage to tell him, but while the matter was being discussed Elizabeth stepped forward, pale but quite self-possessed, and declaring that it was her place to break it to the Emperor, left the room immediately. During the terrible days that followed the Empress gave ample proof, if it were needed, of her true nobility and strength of character. With heroic courage she stifled her own feelings to soothe and comfort her grief-stricken husband, and supported him bravely all through the endless ceremonies that accompanied the burial of their unfortunate child with whom so many hopes had perished. Well might Franz Joseph say, as he did when expressing his thanks to the people of Vienna for their sympathy: “What I owe to the courage and devotion of my beloved wife in this time of trouble, I can never adequately express, and I thank God with all my heart for bestowing on me so noble a consort.” Ten days later, the imperial pair, accompanied by Marie Valerie, left Vienna for Hungary.
Rudolf had been the first prince of the reigning house to give promise of being a really constitutional monarch. He wrote and spoke the Hungarian language like a native, was thoroughly familiar with all parts of the country, and well liked by both the people and the aristocracy. In his death Hungary suffered an irreparable loss, and throughout the kingdom there was genuine grief over his tragic fate, while the depth of public sympathy for the afflicted parents was shown in the warmth of the reception they received in Budapest. In a conversation with Dr. Christomanos some years before her death Elizabeth declared: “In every human life there is a moment when one dies inwardly and that need not necessarily be the time when death actually takes place.” This moment to her was when they brought her the news of her son’s death. She was never the same afterward. At the time of the catastrophe she had shown the courage of a heroine, but after her wonderful self-control had given way, the reaction was terrible and her despair heart-breaking. “I have no longer the strength to live nor the desire to die,” she said. It was reported in Berlin that her reason was destroyed, nor would it have been surprising if this had been the case after such a shock. Of course it was not true, but she did begin to develop symptoms of a serious heart trouble from which she suffered until her death. She never wished to see the Crown Princess Stephanie again, nor could she endure the presence of the little Archduchess Elizabeth, the grandchild who had inherited her father’s nature with the features of a mother to whose behavior the Empress attributed the changes in Rudolf’s way of life and his tragic fate. She shrank from contact with people more and more and often wounded her husband and children by her craving for solitude. Even her favorite palace of Lainz failed to attract her for more than a few weeks, while at Gödöllö the roses drooped and faded and the grass grew thick upon her once-loved bridle paths.
EMPRESS ELIZABETH in later years
EMPRESS ELIZABETH in later years
On the Christmas Eve following the death of the Crown Prince, her mother’s fifty-second birthday, the Archduchess Marie Valerie was betrothed to her cousin Franz Salvator, Duke of Tuscany, an event that was a cause of happiness and satisfaction to all concerned. Next to her parents’ blessing she was anxious to have that of her grandmother, and the day after Christmas accordingly she left for Munich, accompanied by her mother and her lover. Duke Max had died in 1888, shortly after the diamond wedding celebration at Possenhoffen, but the Duchess Ludovica, though bowed with age and many sorrows, had lost none of her mental acuteness and the meeting between the old lady and her daughter and granddaughter was most touching. From there they went to Wiesbaden and Heidelberg, where they spent the spring months. As they were returning to Vienna, they narrowly escaped death by the derailing of the train near Frankfort. Several of the coaches were overturned and crushed, but none of the imperial party, strange to say, was injured. Scarcely had the Empress reached home when she was called to Regensburg by the sudden death there of her eldest sister, Helene of Thurn and Taxis, and after the funeral she went again to Munich to comfort her grief-stricken mother.
The marriage of Marie Valerie and Franz Salvator that summer was one of the few happy events of Elizabeth’s later life. On that occasion she laid aside her mourning for a pale gray silk gown, and for the first time since Rudolf’s death made an effort to smile and appear cheerful. But the brief gleam soon vanished. The Archduchess had been the one bright spot in her life, and even though she was to remain in the country as the wife of an Austrian prince, Elizabeth realized that the relations between them could never be the same again. She had lost her dearest companion.
On the twenty-fifth of January, 1892, her burden of sorrow was increased by the death of her mother, and she retired to Achilleon, where she had had a monument erected to her unfortunate son that she might be alone with memories of her beloved dead. Even her attendants saw her for only a short time each day, and she lived mostly in a world of dreams. Her favorite poets still afforded her solace and diversion, but she grew to care less for books than for the solitude, which she peopled with creations of her own fancy. Her reader sometimes tried to interest her in new authors, but her thoughts would soon wander and her absent expression prove the uselessness of such attempts. Only Shakespeare or Heine had power to fix her attention, and she would often interrupt her reading to recite favorite verses or passages to herself.
The only court ceremony at which the Empress appeared after the death of her son was on the occasion of the visit of the present Czar and Czarina of Russia to Vienna. Her presence at the state reception given in their honor excited even more interest and curiosity than did that of the young Czarina herself, and all eyes were fixed upon her as she entered on the arm of the Russian Emperor, smiling and bowing graciously to those about her. She was dressed in black, as usual, but looked twenty years younger than any of her contemporaries. In spite of all her sorrows and sufferings she could still be truthfully called the most beautiful woman at her court. But her thoughts were continually straying from her guests and from the brilliant scene about her.
“There often seems to be a thick veil between me and the world, as if I were masquerading in the costume of an Empress,” she once remarked. “When I am with people I only show the part of me that we have in common, and they are surprised that I am so much like them when I talk about the weather and the price of candy. It is like taking a dress out of the wardrobe and putting it on for certain occasions.”
In 1896 Hungary celebrated her thousandth anniversary. Elizabeth was even more miserable than usual at the time, and did not feel that she could be present, but it was urged that her absence would cast a shadow over the festivities, and, ill as she was both in body and mind, she finally was persuaded and appeared beside her husband on the throne. Dressed all in black, with a long veil worn Hungarian fashion over her hair, she sat pale and motionless as a statue, her long eyelashes drooping and an expression of unspeakable sadness on her lovely face. Not a muscle moved as the speaker began his address of welcome. She seemed neither to see nor hear until he spoke the word “Elizabeth” and a mighty shout went up from the whole assembly that seemed to shake the marble walls of the throne room. Then the majestic head was lowered slightly, almost imperceptibly, but with wonderful grace and charm in acknowledgment of this tribute. Again the cheers rose louder than before and lasted several minutes, even the highest nobles of the kingdom waving their tufted kalpaks high in the air.
The Queen’s head sank, her deadly pallor giving place to a faint flush. Her eyes opened wide with a flash of their old brilliancy, and a tear rolled slowly down her cheek. It was plain that the affection between Elizabeth and her Hungarian subjects had undergone no change. The speaker went on with his address, the flush slowly faded from her cheeks, and soon she sat beside the Emperor, a Mater Dolorosa once more. It was her last visit to Hungary and her last appearance on the throne.
The Empress Elizabeth had no fear of death, though the thought of it was often in her mind. “I am ready to die,” she used to say; “all I ask is that I may not live to suffer.” She had a presentiment that she was to die an unnatural death and believed it would be by drowning. Sometimes when walking along the shore or on the deck of her yacht she would say: “The sea will have me some day; I know I belong to it.” Her forebodings were destined to be fulfilled, though in a manner that neither she nor any one else could have foreseen, for the life that began so like a summer idyl ended in a tragedy.
In the Spring of 1897 a terrible fate befell her sister Sophie while assisting at a charity bazar held in Paris by the ladies of the French aristocracy. About four o’clock in the afternoon of the fourth of May the lamp of a cinematograph exploded, setting fire to some draperies. The hall was a flimsily built structure, and the flames spread with such rapidity that in a few moments the whole place was a sea of fire and the greater part of those present were unable to escape. One hundred and thirty people perished in this frightful disaster, among them the Duchess d’Alençon, Ludwig of Bavaria’s formerfiancée. It was known that she must have perished, for her wedding ring was found among the ruins soon after the conflagration, though it was not till some days later that her body was found and identified.
The Queen of Naples and Mathilde of Trani were now Elizabeth’s only surviving sisters, and of these the latter was her favorite. They had many traits in common, particularly their aversion to society and their love of travel. The Countess of Trani, who spent most of her time at hotels and watering-places, usually went by the modest title of “Fräulein Nelly Schmidt.” The last Christmas of Elizabeth’s life the two sisters spent together in Paris, but an acute attack of neuritis forced the Empress to hasten southward, and taking her yachtMiramarat Marseilles, they went to San Remo. Here they stayed for two months, leaving on the first of March for Territet in Switzerland, where they parted never to meet again.
Elizabeth was fond of returning to familiar places, and Lake Geneva was one of her favorite spots. From Territet she used to go every day by rail to Glion and from there on foot to Mont de Caux, accompanied only by one of her ladies or her reader, a young man named Frederick Barker.
After a six weeks’ stay in Switzerland she returned to Vienna and went with the Emperor to Lainz. Never had her mind appeared so clouded as now. The veil of melancholia had settled over her thicker and heavier than ever. Her glance was restless, there was an unspeakable weariness in her expression, and hard and bitter lines had appeared about her mouth. Constant suffering made life a torment to her and she could find no rest day or night.
Early in August she went as usual with her husband and Valerie’s family to Ischl to celebrate the Emperor’s birthday. It was the only day in the year on which she laid aside her mourning, and the imperial pair usually went together to church. This time, however, she left earlier and went to Mannheim to take some special massage treatment recommended by her physicians. Her health improved so much that she was able to eat and sleep again and to resume her excursions about the neighborhood, though still too weak to take the long walks and climbs she was so fond of.
On the twenty-ninth of August she went back to Switzerland, this time by special train to Mont de Caux, where she could be more quiet than at Territet. She seemed unusually well, and those who met the slender black-robed foreign lady, chatting familiarly with her one companion, little surmised that she was the sovereign of one of the greatest powers of Europe and ruler over more than forty million people. In a letter to the Emperor written at this time she expressed regret that he was not sharing the peace and pleasure of her stay here and urged him to join her, declaring that she was feeling so much better she hoped to be present at his approaching jubilee, the fiftieth anniversary of his accession to the throne.
On the ninth of September she suddenly decided to make a visit to Pregny, a beautiful villa on the shores of Lake Geneva, that had once belonged to Joseph Bonaparte, but is now in the possession of the Rothschild family. The Baroness Adolph Rothschild had been very kind to the Queen of Naples in her days of misfortune, and Elizabeth was anxious to show her some attention.
She had gone for a stroll the preceding afternoon in the neighborhood of Territet with her reader, Mr. Barker, who had taken with him a basket of fruit for her refreshment. Seating herself on some moss-grown rocks, the Empress peeled a peach, half of which she offered to her companion. Just as she was in the act of handing it to him, a huge raven flew down from a tree near by, flapping its wings almost in her face and knocking the peach from her hand. Remembering the famous legend of the raven, which is always said to appear to the Hapsburgs as a forerunner of misfortune, the startled reader sprang to his feet in alarm and begged her to abandon the trip to Geneva.
“I am not afraid, my friend,” replied Elizabeth. “We must all meet our fate sooner or later, and whatever is destined to happen will happen. Nothing we can do will alter it. You know I am a fatalist.”
The next day she went to Pregny, as she had planned, accompanied only by her Hungarian lady-in-waiting, the Countess Sztaray. She was in a remarkably cheerful mood, most gracious and friendly with the Baroness and much pleased with her visit. Late in the afternoon she arrived at the Hôtel Beaurivage, where she was in the habit of staying. Every precaution had been taken as usual to preserve her incognito, though the servants, remembering her from former visits, were no doubt well aware of her identity. On her first arrival in Switzerland the police of the canton had been charged to watch over her safety, but she had wished as usual to be spared their espionage and left to go her own way.
At noon on the tenth of September, 1898, she left the hotel with her lady-in-waiting to take the steamer to Mont de Caux. They were a little late, and the Countess Sztaray hurried on in advance of her mistress to signal the captain to wait for them. Just at that moment a man arose from a bench on the quay where he had been sitting as they passed. It was the Italian Luigi Luccheni, a dangerous anarchist on whom the Swiss authorities had been warned to keep a watchful eye. With one bound he flung himself upon the Empress and plunged a dagger into her breast. The Countess was unaware that anything had happened, but turning just in time to see her mistress stagger, ran and caught her in her arms.
“Is Your Majesty ill?” she asked in alarm.
“I do not know,” said Elizabeth.
“Will Your Majesty take my arm?”
“Thank you. I do not think I need it.”
Though ghastly pale, she walked to the steamer without assistance, crossed the gang-plank, and then fell fainting to the deck. The steamer started, and the Countess Sztaray with some of the women on board endeavored to restore her to consciousness. No one suspected that she had been wounded until the Countess, loosening her dress to give her more air, discovered stains of blood on her clothing. Just then Elizabeth opened her eyes and in a clear, distinct voice asked, “What has happened?” then sank again into unconsciousness. Now thoroughly alarmed, the Countess informed the captain of her mistress’ identity, and the boat was turned back at once to Geneva, where Elizabeth was carried on a stretcher to the hotel and laid upon her bed. Three physicians who happened to be staying there at the time were hastily summoned and did all in their power to revive her, but in vain: about three o’clock she gave one or two deep sighs and passed away quietly and painlessly, as she had so often expressed a wish to do.
So cold-blooded and unprovoked an assault in broad daylight and in the public street of a large city was one of the most shocking crimes of modern times and aroused the horror and indignation of the whole civilized world. Elizabeth of Austro-Hungary had no enemies. She had exerted no influence in politics, directly or indirectly, nor was she interested in state affairs. As her grief-stricken husband said of her, “she had done much good and never harmed a human being.”
The Empress’ salon in the hotel was quickly transformed into a mortuary chapel. The walls were hung with black, tall candles placed about the coffin, at the foot of which knelt monks reciting prayers for the dead, and over the bier fell a purple velvet pall, in the corner of which some young Swiss girls had embroidered the words “Répose en paix.” Elizabeth was dressed as she had been in life, in black, her hands folded over a rosary and an ivory crucifix. The beautiful features were not altered, but had changed their look of suffering to an expression of wonderful majesty and peace.
On the evening of the eleventh of September a special train bearing her remains left Geneva and passed slowly through Switzerland and Austria amid the tolling of bells, and was met at every stop by sorrowing throngs eager to pay a last tribute to the dead Empress.
The Emperor was overwhelmed with messages of sympathy from all parts of the globe. Flowers and funeral wreaths came from high and low alike in every land that she had visited. Even China and the Transvaal sent offerings to lay upon the Empress’ coffin. From Cairo came a wreath made of desert blooms, hundreds of Jericho roses, the old Christian emblem of the resurrection, and lotus blossoms, symbolic of eternity.
Her death made almost as deep an impression in most of the foreign capitals as in Vienna, where for years she had been so little seen that her Austrian subjects had almost forgotten how she looked, and her assassination aroused less sorrow than rage against the wretch who could have slain a defenceless woman.
In Hungary, however, the public mourning was deep and profound. Every flag was at half-mast and the streets were full of sobbing men and women. The great autumn manœuvres were abandoned, and it was decreed that her biography should be recorded in the national archives, so that her memory might be forever preserved in the history of the country.
The Empress Elizabeth’s personal fortune was a large one. Her jewels alone—presents from Franz Joseph and other royal personages—were valued at four million gulden. Her will was made at Budapest in 1896. It was very short and written in her own hand. Her palace at Lainz was bequeathed to her daughter Valerie; Achilleon, in Corfu, to the elder, Gisela. All her servants and ladies-in-waiting received legacies, and a number of old friends were also remembered. To her old reader and companion, Ida von Ferenczy, who had been with her for thirty years, she left an annuity, besides a considerable sum of money and a life residence in the imperial palace.
In earlier days Elizabeth had expressed a wish to be buried at Gödöllö, then her favorite residence, but in her will she mentioned Achilleon as her chosen place of burial. Her desire was not fulfilled, however. Indulgent as Franz Joseph had been toward his wife’s eccentricities during her lifetime, he was not willing that her hatred of conventionality should be exhibited in her death, and determined that her body should be laid to rest with those of former Empresses and members of his family.
In the heart of Vienna there stands an insignificant-looking chapel belonging to the Capuchins. Above a side door are the words “Imperial Vaults,” and a flight of well-worn steps leads down into the dim burial-place of the royal race of Hapsburg. It was into this chamber that the great Maria Theresa used to force her gay young daughters to descend to meditate on the perishability of all earthly greatness, and here she herself would spend hours beside the tomb of her husband. At the end of a cross passage stands the tomb of the murdered Empress, between that of her brother-in-law, the murdered Emperor of Mexico, and her son Rudolf, who also met with a violent end.
In life she had shunned all religious observances; now masses are said day and night for the repose of her soul. Every morning the gates of the crypt are opened, and she who in life so loved solitude and seclusion is a mark for the gaze of hundreds of curious sightseers.
How much more fitting a place of rest for the nature-loving Empress the sunny shores of her Greek island would have been than the gloomy burial chamber of the Capuchins! How much finer a requiem the sighing of winds and waters than the chantings of vestured priests!
To the world in general Elizabeth of Austria and Hungary will be little remembered as the queenly sovereign in all the insignia of her lofty rank, but rather as the beautiful and unfortunate daughter of the Wittelsbachs, following her solitary way through life, her lonely spirit ever seeking rest and peace in vain. Terrible as it seemed to die by the hand of an assassin in a foreign country, far from all she loved, the dagger of Luccheni was but the instrument of fate, and death came to her almost as a friend. She died, as she had often wished to die, swiftly and painlessly and under the open sky. Who shall say that her last earthly breath was not a sigh of thankfulness and peace?
[1]A few days before the death of the Empress Elizabeth, in 1898, this bridge was torn down.
[1]A few days before the death of the Empress Elizabeth, in 1898, this bridge was torn down.
The following is a chronological statement of important events connected with the life of Elizabeth, Empress of Austria:
LIFE STORIES FOR YOUNG PEOPLETranslated from the German byGEORGE P. UPTON24Volumes Now ReadyHistorical and BiographicalBarbarossaWilliam of OrangeMaria TheresaThe Maid of OrleansFrederick the GreatThe Little DauphinHerman and ThusneldaThe Swiss HeroesMarie Antoinette’s YouthThe Duke of BrittanyLouise, Queen of PrussiaThe Youth of the Great ElectorEmperor William FirstElizabeth, Empress of AustriaMusical BiographyBeethovenMozartJohann Sebastian BachJoseph HaydnLegendaryFrithjof SagaGudrunThe NibelungsWilliam TellArnold of WinkelriedUndineIllustrated. Each 60 centsnetA. C. McCLURG & CO., Chicago
LIFE STORIES FOR YOUNG PEOPLE
Translated from the German byGEORGE P. UPTON
24Volumes Now Ready
Historical and Biographical
Musical Biography
Legendary
Illustrated. Each 60 centsnetA. C. McCLURG & CO., Chicago