Daily Life of the Empress
As time went on, the hereditary disease of the Wittelsbachs, now known
as neurasthenia, which for generations had manifested itself in one form
or another, became more and more pronounced in the Empress Elizabeth.
Her passion for solitude, her aversion to mingling with people, and
constant craving for change must certainly be regarded as inherited
peculiarities, though she was more ill than was generally suspected. A
complication of disorders together with neuritis made her later years a
perpetual martyrdom, yet she bore her sufferings with a patience and
fortitude that her physicians pronounced almost superhuman.
It was a bitter sacrifice for her to give up her riding, but fortunately
she was still able to take the walks and climbs that meant so much to
her. Often, indeed, it was not so much the love of exercise as the
effort to find relief in physical exhaustion from the sleeplessness that
tortured her and secure the rest so necessary to her overwrought nerves.
Always a remarkably small eater, her tastes were extremely simple. For
weeks at a time she would live on nothing but milk, and even at state
banquets often took nothing but a slice or two of wheat bread, a cup of
bouillon, and some fruit. She detested liquor of any sort, and never
tasted it except when the physicians insisted upon her drinking a little
wine for her health. As a rule, she had little respect for medical
knowledge and much preferred to treat herself with her own remedies. She
had a morbid horror of getting stout. Every day she had herself weighed,
and if her usual weight increased at all she would live on oranges till
it was reduced to the proper amount, in spite of her physicians’
warnings of the danger of so slender a diet. But although Elizabeth
cared so little for eating, when at home she gave much attention to the
menus presented to her each morning by the chef, which she often altered
to suit herself. No table could be served more daintily and artistically
than that of the Austrian court when the Empress was present. She
selected the costliest porcelain and glass and had gold and silver
services for all her palaces, though they were rarely used owing to her
long absences.
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.