B008AITH44 EBOK

by Hamann, Brigitte

  Not only the spectators, but also the participants in these court spectacles expressed annoyance at Elisabeth’s frequent regretful refusals. For when the Empress declined to appear, the ladies-in-waiting, for example, were also deprived of an opportunity to parade publicly in her entourage—in splendidly embroidered capes over gala gowns, adorned with the best pieces from the family jewels.

  At the Maundy Thursday ceremonies, still others were disadvantaged. It was the Emperor’s custom to perform the washing of the feet of twelve old men from the poorhouse, who were then treated to a lavish meal and given equally lavish presents. The Empress performed the same duty on twelve poor old women. But since the Emperor was generally the only one to perform this act of public humility, every year twelve poor old women were deprived of the enjoyment of charitable gifts and the events of this great celebration. Counting at least forty Maundy Thursdays without the Empress, the total amounts to a considerable number of neglected people.

  The Empress had her own methods for visits to orphanages, hospitals, and poorhouses. Here, too, she set no great store by representing the court at ceremonial receptions addressed by the directors of the institutions, nor did she care for adulatory newspapers reports of imperial visits to the poor and the infirm. She always arrived unannounced, accompanied only by a lady-in-waiting. What was important to her was the business at hand: to make her own way to the inmates, to observe whether they were being adequately treated and cared for. For example, she always asked for samples from the institutional kitchens, tasted the morsels, praised and criticized. She spoke at length with the patients, inquired about their families, and helped out with money and encouragement wherever she could.

  The Empress’s approach angered both the institution supervisors and the court organization (which she simply bypassed), but she was an enormous success with the patients themselves. She was seen as a good fairy, especially because of her very plain and humane way of dealing with simple people. Her every word was eagerly received and retold in the families for generations.”20

  Nurturing the poor and infirm was a tradition in the Bavarian ducal family. It differed from the social appearances of the Austrian imperial family particularly in being personal and not limited to institutions. This was the tradition Elisabeth tried to carry on.

  But increasingly, she linked these visits to her fascination with aberrations of every kind. Even as a young woman, visiting Verona, she sought out the Negro Education Institute, a missionary school in which black slaves whose freedom had been bought were trained and then sent back to Africa with Christian missions. Her visit to a cholera hospital in Munich in 1874 was not the fulfillment of a charitable duty but was occasioned by pure curiosity. This visit was also utterly thoughtless, because of the risk of contagion; it took place without the Emperor’s knowledge. Accompanied by the loyal Countess Festetics, Elisabeth walked along the rows of beds of the dying. She held the hand of one young man who died only hours later; she remarked to Countess Festetics, “He is dying, and one day he will happily welcome me there.”21 This was the same Elisabeth who, in Vienna, exhibited unparalleled fastidiousness by fleeing at the mere threat of cholera.

  More and more clearly, she gave preference to insane asylums—even abroad, where there was no question of representing the crown; her visits were purely private. She inquired at length about the histories of the patients. At that time, treatment of the insane was still in its infancy. It was considered sufficient in most cases to keep the patients locked up, to feed them and care for them. Elisabeth had a burning interest in new therapeutic experiments; she was, for example, present on one occasion when a patient was hypnotized—at the time, a new and sensational procedure.

  This striking interest in mental illness and its treatment might have indicated the beginning of a commitment. But Elisabeth never took the step leading to active support of new therapies, though in 1871 she proposed a singular name-day wish to the Emperor: “Since you have asked me what would give me pleasure, I beg you for either a young Bengal tiger (Zoological Garden in Berlin, 3 cubs) or a locket. What I would like best of all is a fully equipped insane asylum. Now you have enough choices.” And four days later: “My thanks in advance for the locket. … Unfortunately, you appear not to have given the other two things a moment’s consideration.”22 Elisabeth’s interest in insane asylums was seen as another of her many bizarre ways, frequently ridiculed and disparaged as completely unsuitable to an empress.

  Elisabeth exhibited equally unsuitable behavior at the few visits she paid to artists, such as the most sought-after painter of Vienna at the time, Hans Makart, who had just garnered a great deal of attention with his monumental canvas, Caterina Cornaro (today in the Hermes Villa in the Tiergarten in Lainz). One day, unannounced, the Empress arrived at Makart’s studio. William Unger, a student of Makart’s who happened to be present, described the scene.

  For a long time, she stood silently, as she had come, almost motionless, before the painting of Caterina Cornaro. I am certain that I observed that it made an impression on the Empress, but she found not a word to say to Makart, and it was also not in his nature to … break the silence by a casual remark. Finally, the Empress turned to him with the question, “As I hear, you have a brace of Scottish greyhounds, may I see them?” Makart had the dogs brought in. The Empress, who herself owned a brace of magnificent examples of this breed, … looked at the animals for a time, expressed her thanks, and then took her leave; she lost not a word on the picture.23

  Elisabeth’s excessive shyness could appear insulting at such times.

  Especially when dealing with the nobility, she made absolutely no effort, provoking quite unnecessary animosities. Scornfully, she commented on the mindless “chatter” of the ladies of the court—those worthy of being admitted to her private rooms among them—and the court dignitaries. Her silences during the salons were an increasingly clear expression of contempt, though not of her lack of competence. Her behavior was interpreted as eccentricity. She did not adapt to the order of the court, allowing herself an occasional ironic joke, at times, when the correct stiffness of the person she was speaking to annoyed her enough, even annoying him with a mocking smile.

  Beginning in 1867, Sisi stayed away from politics—whether or not by her own choice cannot be gathered from the sources. Even in the critical summer of 1870, after the outbreak of the Franco-Prussian War, she showed little interest in the extremely tense situation and the heated discussions in Vienna. Some saw in this war a chance for Austria to make good the setback of 1866 and to fight against Prussia on the side of France. Bavaria (committed by treaties concluded in 1866) stood on the side of Prussia, as did the other South German lands which, four years earlier, had been allied with Austria against Prussia. Intervention on the part of Austria on the side of France would therefore have taken her into the war against her former German allies, not against Prussia alone. The situation was extremely difficult, nor was Austria’s military situation propitious. The quick successes of the Prussian army soon demolished any hope of wrestling Prussia to the ground. Austria-Hungary remained neutral.

  Even in this tense situation, family relations in the imperial household improved hardly at all. Quite the contrary: Elisabeth, refusing to spend the summer in Bad Ischl with her mother-in-law, took the children to Neuberg on the Mürz. Elisabeth to Franz Joseph: “to spend the entire summer with your Mama—you will understand that I would prefer to avoid it.”24

  Elisabeth worried especially about her three brothers, who were at the front—on the Prussian side against France. As far as Austria’s future was concerned, in any case, she was most pessimistic. In August 1870, she wrote to her husband, “But perhaps we will vegetate for a couple of years more before our turn comes. What do you think?”25

  In September 1870, the Republic was proclaimed in Paris. Napoleon III’s empire was toppled. The troops of the new Italy marched into Rome and put an end to what was left of the Papal States. Sisi’s sister, the ex-Queen of Na
ples, fled from Rome to Bavaria. In none of these events, not even the proclamation of Wilhelm I as Emperor of Germany in Versailles, did Elisabeth take much of an interest. The people in her entourage, already in a state of deep excitement, felt further irritated in the fall of 1870 when, once again (this time with her two daughters, Gisela and Valerie), she left Vienna and went to Merano for the winter.

  This time, Archduchess Sophie, usually very reticent in this regard, confided to her diary her distress about her daughter-in-law and complained of the “news that Sisi wants to spend the winter far from Vienna again and take her two daughters along to Merano to spend the winter. My poor son. And Rudolf complains at having to be separated from his sisters for such a long time.”26 Crown Prince Rudolf, by now twelve years old, for the first time expressed opposition to his mother. He wrote to his grandmother Sophie, of all people, “so poor Papa must be separated in this difficult time from dear Mama. I assume with joy the handsome office of being dear Papa’s sole support!” Sophie incorporated these sentiments in her diary.27

  The Crown Prince’s disappointment is surely understandable. Elisabeth’s stay in Merano lasted from October 17, 1870, to June 5, 1871 (with one short interruption in March 1871, when she went to Vienna because of the death of her sister-in-law Marie Annunziata). The Emperor was compelled to travel to Merano if he wanted to see his wife and daughters. The following summer—1871—Elisabeth spent largely in Bavaria and Bad Ischl. As early as October 1871, she went to Merano again, and there she remained (with one short intermission in Budapest because of Gisela’s engagement) until May 15, 1872. The Bavarian sisters took turns staying with her.

  The recently engaged lady-in-waiting, Countess Marie Festetics, went along to Merano. She had hesitated for a long time before accepting the post—though it was surely a great honor to be offered it. The Empress’s charm was captivating, she reflected, “but if one 10th of what Bellegarde [Crenneville’s successor as the imperial adjutant general] says is true—I have a most uneasy feeling.” It took Gyula Andrássy to dispel the stern Countess’s reservations and assure her that it was her duty to make the sacrifice for her fatherland (that is, Hungary) by agreeing to become a lady-in-waiting: “You can accomplish much good—and the Queen is in need of loyalty.”28 If it required so much encouragement to a Hungarian woman to place herself near the Empress, one can easily picture the reservations of the Austrian, and most especially the Bohemian aristocracy.

  Countess Festetics had heard so many negative things that now she noted with astonishment and sheer surprise that, though Elisabeth was determined to get away from Vienna, on her travels she lived very quietly and that there was no sign of any sort of adventure. Festetics wrote in her diary, “until now I see only that the Empress goes walking a great deal with her large dog … that she wears a thick blue veil—that if she takes anyone along, it is Ferenczy and she avoids people—all that is highly regrettable—but really nothing bad.”29

  One of the few entertainments was characteristic of Elisabeth. The Empress sent a carriage for the 400-pound giantess Eugénie, who was exhibited in a stall in Merano, to have her brought to her residence, Castle Trattmansdorff, so she could view her.30

  On one of their walks, Elisabeth asked the Countess (of course, speaking in Hungarian), “Aren’t you surprised that I live like a hermit?” And she went on to explain

  I have no alternative but to choose this life. In the great world, I have been so persecuted, so many evil things have been said about me, I have been so maligned, been so deeply offended and hurt—and God sees my soul, sees that I have never done anything evil. So I thought I would find a society that does not disturb my peace and offers me pleasure. The forest does not hurt me…. Nature is much more rewarding than humanity.31

  After one of her conversations with the Empress, Marie Festetics’s diary notes, “She is not at all banal, and one can sense her contemplative life in everything she says! How sad that she fritters away all her time with brooding and has no need to do anything. She has a talent for intellectual activity and altogether a thirst for freedom which finds any limitation terrible.”32 Over and over, the lady-in-waiting praised Elisabeth’s human warmth and her outstanding intellectual abilities, which revealed themselves in an often sarcastic but always apt wit. But Marie Festetics also saw the negative traits: “In ‘Her’ there is everything, but as in a disordered museum—pure treasures, which go unused. Nor does she know what to do with them.”33

  On the other hand, the Countess had complete understanding for the Empress’s rejection of the court. As long as Marie Festetics was in Vienna, she criticized the emptiness, formality, mendacity of life at court: “a life that destroys the spirit.” She regretted that “the futility—the decay of life values is felt nowhere so strongly as at a court, once one accustoms oneself to the outward brilliance and becomes so well aware of how it merely lends glitter to the rot, like the golden tinsel on the Christmas nuts and apples;—how well I understand the Empress’s frustration.”34

  But complaints of this sort were hardly sufficient reason for the Empress to leave Vienna for such long periods. There must have been other, more compelling grounds, which we can only guess at. It was precisely during this time of Elisabeth’s absence that Vienna underwent a total reversal in foreign policy. Beust, the former chancellor and foreign minister, was dismissed. His successor was none other than Gyula Andrássy, who had been aspiring of this office (with Elisabeth’s forceful support) since 1867. No documents from this period exist to prove any influencing control on Elisabeth’s part in Andrássy’s favor. Other factors were in play as well, especially Beust’s rather belligerent attitude during the Franco-Prussian War, while Andrássy favored a neutral position for Austria-Hungary—and made his view prevail.

  In any case, Andrássy saw himself as the savior of the monarchy. Very similarly, Elisabeth later stated in a poem that in 1871, Andrássy had “pulled the carriage out of the mud.”35 He formulated an entirely new policy. While Beust had been Bismarck’s great antagonist, Andrássy now sought to find an understanding with the German Empire, thus complying with Bismarck’s intentions. Both—Bismarck as well as Andrássy—worked toward the great goal of reconciling the enemies of Königgrätz and to conclude a German-Austrian alliance. This objective was realized in the Dual Alliance of 1879.

  Precisely what happened to cause the dismissal of Count Beust and the appointment of Andrássy is not clear to this day, in spite of extensive research.36 The principal open question concerns the role played by Elisabeth in the appointment. That she kept her distance entirely is hard to believe. For even in later years, she made her aversion to Beust and her agreement with Andrássy’s policy only too clear. But her political interference had made bad blood as early as 1867, especially as it concerned Andrássy personally. Now, when this statesman was responsible not only for Hungarian affairs, but also for the foreign policy of the entire empire, the fear in Vienna was great that the liberal Andrássy might—as he had so masterfully done in 1860—use Elisabeth again for his political ends and thus grasp greater authority than any other foreign minister before or after him. This concern was understandable. It is therefore quite possible (but simply not provable, because no correspondence between the Emperor and Empress from this critical period is preserved) that, with her long absences from Vienna precisely during the critical period of Andrássy’s nomination, Elisabeth was intent on foiling all discussions about her political influence. As things were, she strengthened Andrássy’s position. The conservative Court Party (the one that was called the Kamarilla by the Liberals) around Archduke Albrecht and Archduchess Sophie complained about the new political course of events. Even Andrássy was unable to make any changes in Sophie’s hatred of Prussia. And the logically liberal course of domestic policy—which would soon succeed in rescinding the Concordat—brought additional sad hours to the ailing old woman. On New Year’s Eve of 1871, after Andrássy had become foreign minister, Sophie recorded her great bitterness in her dia
ry: “liberalism with all its experts, all its impossibilities. May God have mercy on us!”37

  The relationship between Elisabeth and Andrássy continued, even if nothing more about it was heard in public. The correspondence went on by way of three Hungarian intermediaries within Elisabeth’s closest circle: Ida Ferenczy; the new lady-in-waiting, Countess Festetics; and the new chief chamberlain, Baron Nopcsa, who was a friend of Andrássy’s. The largest and most important part of this correspondence was destroyed—probably for good reason—by Ida Ferenczy. The few letters that survive include, along with unimportant suggestions, Andrássy’s request that the Empress improve relations with the German Empire to the best of her ability, especially through court visits. And in spite of all her reservations about the “Prussians,” Elisabeth really did make active efforts. She maintained good, even cordial, relations with the German Crown Prince and his wife, especially with Crown Princess Victoria, who was about the same age and very prominent in politics. Elisabeth cultivated these contacts because Andrássy considered them important and appropriate, but also because the German Crown Princess, a champion of liberalism, was politically entirely on her (and Andrássy’s) side. Elisabeth also continued to pass on Andrássy’s wishes to her husband—when, for example, it became time to appoint a new Hungarian prime minister. “If only you could win over Tisza, he would surely be best of all. Yesterday Andrássy was still with me,” she wrote in 1874.38

  When, at the end of April 1872, displeasure at the Empress’s overly long absence from Vienna grew louder, it was Andrássy who wrote to Ida Ferenczy in Merano, “I should like to ask you to bring your influence to bear on Her Majesty so that she will not remain away from the capital for long.”39 And in fact, about two weeks after receipt of the letter, Elisabeth returned to Vienna.