Theirs was a very “goth” relationship. Mary, who at age seventeen was still young enough to view her former governess as her BFF, confided everything to Hermine about her affair with the thirty-year-old crown prince. Her parents tried to keep her away from Rudolf, but with limited success, as Countess Marie Larisch, who was pimping the girl, had access to the highest echelons of the imperial family.
Rudolf met Mary Vetsera at a particularly unhappy point in his life. Even Stephanie had noticed that her husband was looking tired, ill, and gaunt. In his last letter to Moriz Szeps, written during Christmas week of 1888 or around the start of the new year, the crown prince confessed that the political climate across the empire, and in most of continental Europe in general, gave him “the feeling of the calm before the storm.”
In a professional capacity Szeps knew Rudolf perhaps better than anyone else. His reply to the crown prince went unanswered, although its contents have provided fodder for conspiracy theorists: You, Imperial Highness, have had to experience much malice and perfidy, but you have shaken it off with remarkable equanimity. It is well known that you desire great things, that you are capable of accomplishing them, and he who does not know feels it. This is why you are now being attacked by various means and your way into the future barred and you have already today many adversaries and enemies.
Although some like to point the finger directly at Franz Joseph, it was more than likely his prime minister, Count Eduard Taaffe (a boyhood friend of the emperor’s and a vehement adversary of the crown prince), who was responsible for pouring the anti-Rudolf pestilence into Franz Joseph’s ear.
As the new year of 1889 dawned, Rudolf was plagued by depression, apathy, and feelings of powerlessness. Stephanie had traveled to the south to avail herself of a warmer climate. On January 13, Mary Vetsera visited the Hofburg again. The next day she wrote to her governess Hermine: I was with him last night from seven till nine. We have both lost our heads. Now we belong to one another life and soul.
Had they confirmed their suicide pact that night, or consummated their affair? Since the summer of 1888, Rudolf had talked to his inamorata Mizzi Kaspar about killing himself, proposing a mutual suicide pact to be carried out in the Vienna Woods, but Mizzi had laughed in his face at the suggestion. And he had made the same proposition to his wife, who had clearly feared he would do himself some injury, despite her refusal to share his fate. During the final months of his life, the crown prince had become more obsessed than ever with the idea of death, remarking whenever he heard about someone’s demise that they were “fortunate.”
Stephanie returned to Vienna for the winter ball season, but didn’t attend any of the festivities because the court was in official mourning for Sisi’s father, who had died on November 15, 1888. Tensions were running high there. Rumors abounded regarding heated confrontations between Rudolf and his father during the month of January 1889. Although it has never been substantially proven, historians once believed that the crown prince sought to apply to Rome for the pope’s permission to divorce Stephanie, and that the very devout emperor blew a gasket when he found out what his son had done, assuring Rudolf that he would never agree to let him have a divorce. This whole, probably invented contretemps stems from a chain of conversations much like a game of “Telephone” gone awry among various Russian diplomats. In an age before wiretapping, how the Russians would be privy to any confidential, closed-door exchanges among members of the Hapsburg imperial family (unless the subject of such discussions became common knowledge within the Hofburg) defies a good explanation. Certainly the rumors were spread, and reached as far as London, but it is far more likely, given their lack of proof, that they were no more than Russian propaganda.
On Monday, January 28, 1889, Rudolf waited in the Hofburg for the delivery of a telegram before departing for Mayerling, his hunting lodge some seventeen miles southwest of Vienna. He had allegedly spent part of the previous night in Mizzi Kaspar’s arms, and upon leaving her in the wee hours of the morning after enjoying copulation and copious quantities of champagne, he made the sign of the cross on her forehead—an unusual gesture, if true, for the anticlerical prince.
The telegram arrived at around eleven thirty that morning. As Rudolf perused it he was heard to exclaim, “It has to be!” and then he tossed the telegram on a table. His biographers have yet to clarify whether the missive was of a personal or a political nature; consequently, all sorts of theories have been propagated as to the telegram’s author and its contents, allowing people to assert (with absolutely no proof) that the prince’s exclamation cemented his plans for suicide, or that it referred to a political change in the winds in Hungary. The latter has since been conclusively disproved because the timing is off by days.
Rudolf drove his own coach to Mayerling, leaving word for Stephanie that he would return the following day by 5:00 p.m. According to Countess Larisch, Mary Vetsera had left a note at her mother’s house announcing her intention to commit suicide. The countess insisted that she herself never took that threat seriously. Mary supposedly was brought to Mayerling via a charade worthy of a Bourne or Bond movie—creating subterfuges and distractions, and changing carriages and drivers at various locations.
On January 29, two of Rudolf’s usual hunting buddies, Count Hoyos and Stephanie’s brother, Prince Coburg, arrived at Mayerling for the scheduled shooting party to find the blinds drawn—rather odd for a house expecting guests. Rudolf, who was wearing his coat indoors, told his friends he was warding off a chill and had determined that he’d better not go shooting that day after all. But his rationale struck his companions as bizarre: The prince had inexplicably insisted that the nearby hillsides (where he often roamed on such excursions) were too steep. He sent a telegram to Stephanie offering his excuses for not being able to return to Vienna that evening, apologizing for being obliged to miss the dinner honoring the engagement of his younger sister Valerie to Archduke Franz Salvator of Tuscany.
The crown princess purportedly had a premonition when she read the telegram, exclaiming to the messenger, Rudolph Puckerl, “O God, what shall I do! I feel so strange.”
Months earlier, she had told Franz Joseph that her husband had proposed a suicide pact between the two of them, and the emperor had scoffed at her, scolding her for indulging in fantasies. Stephanie also knew about her husband’s love affairs, but was powerless to convince him to break them off.
While Rudolf entertained his hunting companions at Mayerling, Mary Vetsera waited out of sight in his bedroom. That evening, the lovers were serenaded in the boudoir by the prince’s coachman, Bratfisch, before the functionary was dismissed for the night. However, Bratfisch later claimed that he had figured out what was about to transpire.
Before the triggers were pulled (if indeed two different guns were used, according to one of the many conspiracy theories), the couple composed farewell letters to their family members. To the older Baroness Vetsera, Mary had written: Dear Mother,
Forgive me for what I have done. I could not resist my love. In an agreement with him I would like to be buried beside him at Alland. I am happier in death than in life.
Yours,
Mary
In her last letter to her sister, Mary wrote: We are going blissfully into the uncertain beyond. Think of me now and then. Be happy and marry only for love. I could not do it, and since I could not resist love, I am going with him. . . . Do not weep for my sake. I am crossing the line merrily. . . .
Mary’s intended husband, the Duke of Braganza, received only a glib note suggesting that he drape her fur boa on the wall above his bed as a memento.
Rudolf had written his farewells before he left Vienna. They were addressed individually to his sister Valerie, to Stephanie, and to his mother (in which he asked to be buried in the little cemetery at Heiligenkreuz, alongside “the pure angel who accompanied [him] into the other world”). No letter was written to his father. The prince’s letter to his wife read: You are relieved of my presence and vexation; be happy
in your own way. Be kind to the poor little one [their daughter Elisabeth]; she is all that remains of me. . . . I approach death composedly; it alone can save my good name. I embrace you tenderly, your loving Rudolf.
Rudolf had discussed the method of suicide with Mary beforehand. She agreed that a revolver was a surer method than poison. “Rather a revolver, a revolver is safer,” she’d had engraved inside an ashtray that she gave the prince as a gift. According to those who knew him well, Rudolf routinely slept with two revolvers under his pillow.
But when the moment of truth arrived, Mary Vetsera did not pull the trigger and take her own life. In the predawn hours of January 30, 1889, Rudolf killed her with a single shot from one of his revolvers, placing a longstemmed rose in her pale hands, which already clasped a white handkerchief. Her body would be found where she died, lying nude on Rudolf’s bed. However, when it came to offing himself, the crown prince apparently hesitated, sitting for hours on the edge of the mattress, fortifying himself with brandy, and finally using a looking glass so that he could most accurately aim the deadly shot. Rudolf had been fascinated by the lurid details regarding the 1888 suicide of the renowned sportsman and big-game hunter Stefan Kégl. Kégl had used a hand mirror to make sure he would kill, rather than merely maim himself.
According to one version of events, at around 6:30 a.m. on January 30, Rudolf left his bedroom and told his valet and personal gun loader, Loschek, that he had decided to sleep in, asking Loschek to come and wake him at seven thirty. After Loschek later knocked, then pounded on the door, and still received no answer, he broke it down. He saw Rudolf, half lying on the edge of the bed in a pool of blood. In 1928, when Loschek wrote his memoirs, he claimed to have heard the gunshots, adding that he’d burst into the room to discover each of the victims, fully dressed, on separate beds—a description that contains two major lies. And yet in 1889, Loschek (who evidently hadn’t spent too much time noticing the condition of the two corpses) made the strange determination that Rudolf had been killed with a heavy dose of the poison potassium cyanide, which had induced a hemorrhage.
Within hours, Count Hoyos left for Vienna to inform the royal family of the tragedy. Sisi was having her Greek lesson and insisted that she could be interrupted only if the news was dire. Hoyos broke it to her as gently as possible, sharing the poison theory. Sisi managed to dry her tears before sharing the news with her husband’s erstwhile lover, the young actress Katarina Schratt, whom the imperial couple routinely insisted was merely a mutual close friend. The tenderhearted Frau Schratt, who had learned how to manage the emperor’s moods, informed him of the crown prince’s demise.
According to Stephanie’s memoirs, the imperial couple had decided that the news was not important enough to interrupt her singing lesson. But as soon as she was summoned, Stephanie instinctively realized that Rudolf was gone.
Sisi informed Baroness Helene Vetsera that her daughter was dead, accusing Mary—according to the first disseminated version of events—of poisoning Rudolf before taking her own life with the potassium cyanide. The court physician, Dr. Widerhofer, who examined the corpses and must have realized that there had been no poison involved in the deaths, sent no telegram to the Hofburg contradicting that initial report. Stephanie confessed to Widerhofer that she felt guilty for not having been able to prevent the tragedy.
Once it became clear, however, that poison had not been a factor, the imperial family published the news that Rudolf had died of heart failure. The bulletin provided no explanation for Mary Vetsera’s death—an aspect of the lurid story that Franz Joseph was eager to keep as hushed up as possible.
Of course the “official lie” was just that, and word soon spread that Rudolf and the young baroness had each died of a single shot to the head. But even then, the story was rewritten to imply that each of the deceased had committed suicide. There were several reasons for this. If the public were to learn that Mary had been murdered (and given the placement of her body and the items found in her cold, dead hands, it would have been nigh impossible for her to have shot herself), then the reputation of Rudolf and the imperial family would have been even more deeply tainted than it was by the presumption of suicide. To add the name of murderer was unthinkable. The supposition that Mary had taken her own life avoided the possibility of an embarrassing inquest. It also made it easier for the imperial flunkies to dispose of her corpse with neither fanfare nor delay.
The earlier reports from Mayerling mention that both bullets were found at the hunting lodge. But there are conflicting descriptions of the condition of Rudolf’s face and head. Some people reported seeing his brains hanging out, or splattered on the floor, or that the top of the right side of his head was completely blown off. Rudolph’s face was ultimately reconstructed using wax and paint, with his head discreetly bandaged, so that his body could lie in state attractively.
The autopsy conveniently concluded that the abnormalities found in his skull were consistent with mental derangement. Better for the imperial family that their heir should be a nut job than a depressive psychopath.
Additionally, Franz Joseph refused to issue a statement regarding the fact that the nude, dead body of a woman was lying on the bed beside his son. This little bit of information was released to the public as an afterthought. Perhaps it would have been wiser to allow people to assume that the crown prince was the victim of a doomed love affair.
Another rumor that immediately gained traction and had staying power well into the third quarter of the twentieth century (when the most recent biographies of Rudolf were published) was that Franz Joseph had to apply to the pope in order for his suicidal son to receive a Christian burial. Although there was copious correspondence between Rome and Vienna, in truth, the Austrian clerics had determined from the outset that the crown prince would receive all due honors, both state and religious. It is yet another conspiracy theory that the Vatican is concealing crucial documentation regarding high-level negotiations for a Catholic funeral. But the fact that the Austrian newspapers were prohibited from publishing any comment on the incident at Mayerling created a news blackout that only stoked the rumors.
Formal court mourning was ordered to be observed for several months. The crown prince’s body lay in state for two days so that the public could pay their respects to his corpse. On the third day, February 5, 1889, Rudolph’s modestly attended funeral was conducted. Franz Joseph had requested the crowned heads of Europe—especially Stephanie’s parents—to stay home. The Belgian king and queen came anyway. Rudolf’s body was laid to rest in the imperial vault at the Kapuzinerkirche among generations of deceased Hapsburgs. Sisi descended into the crypt alone on February 9 and called out his name several times. She would later listen to spiritualists, occultists, and all manner of quacks in an effort to commune with the spirit of her dead son.
The Hapsburgs dragged Mary Vetsera’s name through the mud, at first spreading the word that she had poisoned the crown prince; then the royal family refused Baroness Helene Vetsera any aid in burying her daughter. Mary’s corpse—with a river of drying blood following the contours of her nude body, the wound in her left temple congealed, her unseeing eyes open, and still clutching the rose and handkerchief—was first dumped in an anteroom at Mayerling, unceremoniously covered in a heap of old clothes. Her body was then washed and dressed in her traveling ensemble, and bundled into a plain coach—propped up to give the impression that it was merely the slumping form of a sleeping traveler. Mary was not even allowed the dignity of a hearse. The unassuming carriage was then driven to the Cistercian monastery at the nearby village of Heiligenkreuz. On February 1, Mary’s body was buried in the light of day (despite rumors to the contrary) in the monastery’s cemetery. Although suicide had been (conveniently) listed as her cause of death, she received a Christian burial. The only mourners were a few policemen and Mary’s two uncles, the Baltazzi brothers (Heinrich and Alexander)—who are often suspected of murdering the crown prince even though one of them, Alexander, was nowhere n
ear Mayerling at the time.
The Austrian government was so keen to hush up Mary Vetsera’s involvement in the Mayerling tragedy that they disseminated the false story that Mary had still been alive at the end of January 1889, but that she’d caught a bad cold after accompanying her mother to Venice, and had expired there. Privately, Franz Joseph and Sisi gave Helene Vetsera permission to leave Austria with her daughter’s coffin, which she could then reinter at a location of her choosing.
The baroness was insulted by the request and told the imperial family that under no circumstances would she disturb Mary’s final resting place. In her anger, she had 250 copies of a pamphlet printed that claimed to tell the true story of Mary’s death. The Austrian government attempted to round up and destroy as many of the pamphlets as they could, but some of them found their way into the newspaper offices of foreign countries, where they were eventually published, either in part or in their entirety. However, the first such instance of publication did not occur until 1891.
Most of Rudolf’s personal papers were burned pursuant to a posthumous request found in a lockbox of his documents. The same request held true for the papers that remained in his writing desk. The official papers regarding the incident at Mayerling were given by Franz Joseph to Prime Minister Taaffe, who kept them in his possession rather than depositing them into the state archives. Over the ensuing decades various stories were disseminated regarding the whereabouts of these files. Taaffe lied when he insisted that the papers had been destroyed in a fire, because they had never been placed anywhere near the room that burned. His son and grandson took whatever secrets they may have had to their graves. The emperor’s purported desire to release the contents of the files fifty years after his death (which would have been in 1966) turned out to be either a dilatory deception or merely wishful thinking.
Royal Pains: A Rogues' Gallery of Brats, Brutes, and Bad Seeds Page 26