Death of the Empress
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 former _fiancée_. 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 yacht _Miramar_ at
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?
Footnotes
[1]A few days before the death of the Empress Elizabeth, in 1898, this
bridge was torn down.
Appendix
The following is a chronological statement of important events connected
with the life of Elizabeth, Empress of Austria:
1837 Birth of Elizabeth.
1853 Betrothal to Franz Joseph.
1854 Marriage.
1856 Visit to Austrian Alps.
1855 Birth of Sophie Dorothea.
1856 Birth of second daughter, Gisela.
1858 Birth of Crown Prince Rudolf.
1859 Sardinian War.
1866 Estrangement of Emperor and Empress.
1866 War with Prussia.
1867 Elizabeth Crowned Queen of Hungary.
1868 Birth of Marie Valerie.
1878 War with Bosnia and Herzegovina.
1881 Marriage of Prince Rudolf.
1889 Death of Prince Rudolf.
1896 Hungary Celebrated Thousandth Anniversary.
1898 Elizabeth Killed by an Assassin.
LIFE STORIES FOR YOUNG PEOPLE
_Translated from the German by_
GEORGE P. UPTON
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The Duke of Brittany
Louise, Queen of Prussia
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Emperor William First
Elizabeth, Empress of Austria
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