B008AITH44 EBOK (39 page)

The opening date of the new Vienna Opera was postponed to
accommodate
Elisabeth, who was, once again, staying in Budapest longer than expected. As if there had not been enough scandal associated with the new building (public criticism of the new opera had cost both architects their lives: A year before the opening, Eduard van der Nüll committed suicide, and August Siccard von Siccardsburg died of grief a few months later), the Empress caused further outrage on the day of the opening. Although she had accepted the invitation and was back in Vienna in good time, she sent her regrets on the shortest of notice, just before the beginning of
Don
Giovanni
,
the inaugural production—giving as her reason the very
threadbare
excuse of a sudden “indisposition.”

After this resounding failure, Elisabeth made amends by appearing at the Corpus Christi procession for the first time in seven years. Countess de Jonghe wrote to Brussels, “One was furious; if she had not participated this morning, a revolution would surely have broken out.” At seven o’clock in the morning, Elisabeth had to stand ready at St. Stephen’s Cathedral in full regalia—mauve-colored dress with train, embroidered in silver and studded with diamonds, and her hair in a complicated
arrangement.
Since the time it took to drive from Schönbrunn into the city has to be added to the three hours of dressing and hair combing, the Empress must have risen at three o’clock—the middle of the night—to march
(though, of course, expressing piety and humility in her bearing) at the heart of the procession, the cynosure of all eyes in the midst of her equally sumptuously attired entourage. Countess de Jonghe: “The poor woman’s dress was low-cut, and a gentle but quite chilly breeze was blowing. Twelve princesses followed, all with long trains and low necklines. If they are not all ill by tonight, they are very lucky.” All the spectators were agreed on Elisabeth’s beauty. Countess de Jonghe: “The Empress’s walk resembled the glide of a beautiful swan on the water. To the last moment, one was sure she would not appear, for this beauty loves neither the sun nor being in public.”
¹⁹

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.

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 Naples, 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