The Empress’ Travels
Urged by her love of nature and of new scenes as well as by her inborn
restlessness, Elizabeth, as is well known, spent a great part of her
time travelling about incognito from place to place like any ordinary
tourist. She never tired of studying strange lands and peoples, and the
constant change and communion with nature calmed her tortured spirit as
nothing else could. “One should never stay indoors except when
absolutely necessary,” she declared, “and our homes should be so ordered
as not to destroy the illusions we bring in with us.” The sea had an
irresistible attraction for her, and she would pace up and down the deck
of her yacht for hours sometimes, ordering no one to speak to or
approach her. “The sea is my father confessor,” she used to say; “it
removes all my cares and troubles and has taught me all I know.” Her
yacht _Miramar_, on which she spent so much of her time, was elegantly
and conveniently fitted up with every comfort. On the deck was a large
round pavilion of glass commanding a view of the sea in all directions,
for her use in wet weather, but the Empress’ favorite spot was the after
deck, which was shut off from the rest of the yacht with sail cloth so
that there should be nothing to interfere with her outlook over the sea.
She usually travelled under the name of Countess of Hohenembs, her
Majesty’s thirty-eighth title in the Court Calendar. She loved to
explore strange, out-of-the-way places, and displayed wonderful
enthusiasm and endurance as a traveller. Of all lands, however, she
loved the East the best. Her favorite cities were Tunis, Algiers, Cairo,
and Alexandria, and she was the first European sovereign to visit Troy.
Her talent for languages was remarkable. Besides German and Hungarian,
she had mastered French, English, and Greek, and had a fair knowledge of
Latin. She never cared to learn Italian, indeed she had the greatest
dislike to everything pertaining to Italy, having been subjected to
several outrages at the hands of the people of that country. She had
narrowly escaped death at Trieste in the early eighties, when a bomb was
thrown into the citadel where she was staying.
Owing to the Empress’ reluctance to appear in public, her features were
not generally known in Austria, a fact which led to many absurd
situations. One day when taking the train at Mödling she sent her
servant to order the station-master to have the train stopped at a small
station near her palace at Lainz. Seeing that the train was about to
start, she called to the guard: “Tell that man in the black coat to make
haste!” Whereupon the officer bawled out, “Here, hurry up, you! or else
your good woman will go off and leave you!” evidently taking the Empress
for the horrified servant’s wife. It was not always easy to preserve her
incognito on her travels, though she made every effort to do so because
of her keen enjoyment of the adventures which it brought about.
In her younger days she used to spend much time in Scotland and Ireland,
where she delighted in the hunting. During one of these visits in
Ireland the fox she was pursuing sprang over the wall of Maynooth
College, near which the chase had led her, and dashed across the
exercise ground where the students were sauntering peacefully about.
Great was their amazement the next moment when the wall was also cleared
by several hounds and a horsewoman on a magnificent hunter, who had
evidently followed the fox through a pond, for she was dripping wet. The
fox was quickly captured, and the rider dismounted and asked to see the
head of the college, to whom she explained her identity, requesting to
be shown to a room where she could change her clothes. No feminine
garments were to be found, however, in a seminary for young priests and
she was forced to borrow one of the doctors’ cassocks. While her clothes
were drying she invited the professors to have tea with her, charmed
them all with her graciousness, and caused much merriment by her comical
appearance and lively descriptions of her adventures.
Once while in Amsterdam, where she occasionally went to be treated by an
eminent specialist in nervous disorders, she entered a toy shop to buy a
doll, saying to her companion:
“I am sure my granddaughter will be delighted when she gets this.”
The shop-keeper, thinking it impossible that this slender,
youthful-looking person could be a grandmother, made some remark to that
effect.
“Oh, yes, I have four grandchildren,” said the Empress, “and to prove it
I will come again soon and buy some toys for the other three. You may
send them to my daughter, the Princess Gisela in Munich.”
The poor shop-keeper was dumfounded and humbly apologized for his
rudeness.
“You were not rude,” said Elizabeth kindly; “on the contrary, you were
very flattering.”
She was usually regarded as somewhat eccentric in Amsterdam, from her
habit of always holding a fan before her face in the street, and once a
street urchin ran up to her and snatched it away, crying, “Let me see
your face!” But in spite of the unpleasant experiences which her
incognito occasionally created, she could never be induced to abandon it
and was much displeased when people did not respect her wishes in this
matter. When one of the servants at a Spanish hotel, where she had
registered as “Frau Folna of Corfu,” addressed her as “Your Highness,”
she retorted sharply, “There are no Highnesses in my apartments.”
She would often start off on the spur of the moment to see some work of
art of which she had heard without telling any of her suite where they
were going. Her Greek teacher, Professor Rhousso Rhoussopoulos, relates
that on one occasion when the Empress was staying at Wiesbaden for the
baths, he suddenly received orders to get ready to accompany herself and
the Archduchess Marie Valerie on a journey, and not until they reached
the railway station did he learn that their destination was
Frankfort-on-the-Main, where Elizabeth wanted to see Thorwaldsen’s
reliefs and Danecker’s “Ariadne,” which were in the Rothschild
collection there. Luncheon had been ordered for them at the station
restaurant at Frankfort. The Empress was in high spirits, and taking her
daughter’s arm, walked up and down, watching the people and enjoying the
bustle of the station. She was delighted that no one recognized her and
ate the first part of her luncheon with great relish. But when the
second course arrived it was specially served on gold plate with extra
attendants; evidently her identity had been discovered. Instantly her
cheerfulness vanished and she hastily finished the meal in order to
escape as soon as possible. There was nothing she disliked so much as
being stared at.
As Professor Rhoussopoulos was walking with her one day in a North
German city, she suddenly exclaimed:
“Look how that woman across the street is staring at us! What do you
suppose it means?”
“Probably it is only a bad habit she has, your Majesty,” replied the
professor; but before the words were out of his mouth the Empress had
rushed across the street and the next moment the two women were in each
other’s arms. It was her sister, the Countess of Trani, who was almost
as fond of travelling as Elizabeth herself.
Wherever she went the Empress was perpetually at warfare with the police
authorities whose duty it was to watch over her safety. She resorted to
all sorts of devices to elude and mislead them, and their task was no
easy one. Once when she and the Emperor were staying at Mentone, she
sent for the chief of police there and told him that it annoyed her
exceedingly to be continually followed about by detectives and she
wished it stopped. The officer replied that he was compelled to perform
his duties, and if it displeased Her Majesty there was nothing left for
him but to resign his position.
“No, no!” said the Empress. “Remain in Mentone, by all means, and devote
yourself to protecting my husband, for his life is most necessary to his
subjects. As for me, what am I? A mere stranger and far too unimportant
to attract any attention.”
An English journalist was glancing over some books one day in front of a
second-hand bookshop in Monza, when the dealer came out and asked him to
go away, as the lady inside did not wish to be followed about, evidently
supposing him to be a detective. Curious to know who the lady was, he
cast a searching glance through the window and recognized the Empress.
Taking out one of his cards, he handed it to the dealer with the request
that he inform his illustrious customer of her mistake. An hour later,
as he was strolling through the palace grounds, he saw Her Majesty a
short distance in front of him. Not wishing to arouse her suspicions a
second time, he was about to turn down a side path, when she beckoned
him to approach and with much dignity and graciousness explained to him
the annoyance she was subjected to by the officiousness of the police,
and apologized for the scene at the bookshop. Late the next evening, as
the journalist entered a well-known restaurant in Milan, great was his
amazement to find the Empress seated at one of the tables quite alone
and unattended. As he took his seat near by, one of the waiters came to
her and said:
“It is rather late, signora, to get anything good; almost everything is
gone.”
“But I am hungry,” replied Elizabeth; “you will have to find me
something.”
The man disappeared and was back again in a moment. “There is just one
course left, signora,” he said, “but it is the best of all. I can
recommend it, for I have just eaten some of it myself. But it is a
trifle dear!”
“How much does this superior dish cost?” asked the Empress, smiling.
“Eighty centesimi,” said the waiter doubtfully.
Elizabeth laughed aloud.
“The signora need not laugh,” he went on in an offended tone; “most
people find it so dear they order only a half portion!”
The journalist had sat all this time hidden behind his newspaper, but
the Empress recognized him at once and addressing him pleasantly with
“Good-evening, Herr Journalist,” continued to converse with him during
the meal.
She was extremely fond of Paris and rarely failed to go there when on
her European tours, though always as Countess of Hohenembs and never as
Empress of Austria. She would often meet her sisters, the Duchess
d’Alençon and the Countess of Trani, and go about with them, as she
could do so there without fear of annoyance. One day she took a fancy to
ride on an omnibus, but when the driver came to collect her fare she
gave him two pieces of gold, an act of munificence that stunned the
frugal Parisians and led to her being recognized. Annoyed at the curious
interest of the other passengers, she hastily alighted and took refuge
in the nearest house, where she waited till the crowd had dispersed and
then drove back to her hotel in a closed carriage with the shades
closely drawn, vowing it was the last time she would ever attempt to
ride on an omnibus in a city like Paris.