An Intimate Portrait of

Empress Sisi of Austria

by

Count Corti

Re-edited by T.C. O’Halloran

1
ISBN-13: 9798831597028

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or

transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,
including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and
retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright
owner.

‘An Intimate Portrait of Empress Sisi of Austria’ represents a major re-

editing and significant re-translation, by T.C. O’Halloran, of Count
Corti’s masterful biography ‘Elisabeth, Empress of Austria,’ published in
1936 but out of copyright since 1964 as its copyright was not renewed,
as was then required.

The original translation is therefore free of copyright, but all re-edits and
re-translations by T.C. O’Halloran are the exclusive copyright of the
publishers, Winter Palace Books, 2022.

2
Chapter 1

The First Meeting (June 1848)

At the age of ten, Sisi’s face was as round as that of any little peasant girl
and not particularly beautiful, but she had an irresistible charm and was a
great favorite at home. When the other children wanted to coax their
mother, the Duchess Ludovika, into giving them anything, she was the
one who was always chosen to represent them.
Her father, the Duke Max in Bayern, was a handsome, easygoing and
cheerful man. Fond of the wildest pranks, and without any pretense to
Royal dignity or distance, he welcomed anyone who was talented and
good company, until he became the center of a lively circle. He gave
banquets and drinks parties, and being himself a good rider and a lover
of horses, put on performances in the riding school that he had built next
to his palace. Here he himself gave displays of horsemanship or
entertained his guests with mounted quadrilles, pantomimes and
enactments of hunting scenes.
The Duke cared little for politics, preferring to be a silent observer
who pitied those whose professional duties forced them to play their part.
His historical research had made him a liberal. Indifferent to his wife and
with no strong sense of family, he made only fleeting visits home, yet he
loved his new estate of Possenhofen on Lake Starnbergersee and the
magnificent countryside around it, and imparted his love of nature to his
children. Sisi very much took after him, joining him in his hobbies with
great enthusiasm, and she was particularly delighted when the family left
their palace in Munich for the countryside as, in her eyes, Possenhofen
was a paradise where she could look after her pets, of which she had a
great number, being at one time or another the proud owner of a roe, a
lamb, some rabbits and a wonderful flock of chickens and guinea-fowls.
One of Duke Max’s passions was to sing songs that he had written to
the accompaniment of a zither, his favorite instrument. He had also set
up a Round Table of fourteen knights over which he presided in the
character of King Arthur. These knights included in their copious
drinking bouts a game known as the ‘Leberreim,’ which was popular in
those days and consisted in finding impromptu rhymes to the verse:

3
 The liver of a pike it is, and not that of a … (sable, for
instance),

or whatever animal suggested itself as an idea that rhymed.

The Duchess left her husband to do as he would and concentrated her
thoughts upon her children: Ludwig Wilhelm (born 1831), Helene
(Néné), Elisabeth (Sisi), Karl Theodor (known in the family circle as
“Gackel” [the cockerel]), Marie, Mathilde (nicknamed “Spatz” [the
sparrow] because she was so gentle), Sophie, and Max Emmanuel
(known as “Mapperl”) who was born in 1849.
They were a very united and loyal family who never told tales on one
another. In winter they romped around the palace in Munich and in
summer around the garden at Possenhofen, and their tutors and masters,
whom they somewhat resented, had no easy time of it as lessons were
not their favorite occupation, least of all for Sisi.
Duke Max himself did not spend much time with his children and
was away so much that they did not miss him either. Once, when
someone asked Sisi whether she had seen her father, who had been back
for several days after one of his frequent trips, Sisi replied, “No, but I
have heard him whistling!”
However, Duke Max would sometimes appear unexpectedly in the
middle of lesson time, although not with any intention of carrying out an
inspection. On the contrary, he would interrupt the lessons and carry the
children off to the garden, amid loud shouts, to plunder the fruit trees. Or
else he would bring a little band with him, and there would be a concert
and dancing. If he happened to be in a good mood, the children would
take advantage of this by appealing to his fatherly authority to obtain
something that they had been unable to get from their mother.
Having five daughters, the Duchess Ludovika often wondered
anxiously how she was going to find good marriage prospects for them
all, but in the meantime they led a carefree life.

Meanwhile, the state of affairs in Austria was causing the children’s

Aunt Sophie great concern. Aunt Sophie was the Duchess Ludovika’s
elder sister as a daughter of King Maximilian I of Bavaria from his
second marriage. The other sisters included Marie, who became the wife
of King Frederick Augustus II of Saxony; Elisabeth, who became the

4
Queen of Prussia; and Amalie, who married Prince John of Saxony, who
succeeded his brother Frederick Augustus II as King in 1854.
Sophie was notable for her imposing personality, strength of will, and
devotion to the Catholic faith. She had married the Archduke Franz Karl
of Austria in 1824. Franz Karl’s father was Franz II, the Holy Roman
Emperor and the first Emperor of Austria. His brother was Emperor
Ferdinand I of Austria, known as “The Benevolent.”
In the eighteen-forties, during the latter days of the Metternich
government in Austria-Hungary, discontent had increased alarmingly,
not only in Hungary and Italy but in the very heart of the Empire itself.
Her heart seething with ambition, the Archduchess Sophie followed
the unraveling of events in the Austrian Empire at her weak-willed
husband’s side, and had been far from being in agreement with Prince
Metternich placing the mentally defective Emperor Ferdinand I on the
throne after the death of his father, clearly recognizing that the primary
objective of this move was to secure absolute power for the Chancellor
himself. She felt that this selfish policy was doing untold harm to the
prestige of the Imperial family and angrily rebelled against it. But since
her husband, the Archduke Franz Karl, was the next heir, sooner or later
something else would have to be done as, unfortunately, although honest,
good-natured and well-meaning, her husband was quite incapable of
guiding the tangled destinies of the Empire with a firm hand. And
although she would be at his side with her advice and assistance, she felt
that things might be very different if a clever, energetic and fresh ruler
were to work under her direction. After all, she had no less than four
healthy and promising sons.
The eldest in particular, Franz Josef, born in 1830, was a fine young
man, and not only the apple of his mother’s eye but the great hope of
Austria. When he grew up, she would be able to seize the right moment
to get rid of Metternich and everything he stood for.
But events moved faster than she had anticipated. When the February
Revolution of 1848 broke out in France, the people of Vienna could no
longer be kept down. On March 30, the Chancellor fled. His system of
government fell with him and uprisings took place across Lombardy,
Venetia and the ever-radical Hungary, which hoped to secure its own
independence.
The Archduchess Sophie had long been convinced that changes in the
government of the Empire were necessary, but she had not wanted them

5
to come about through insurrection and revolution. She saw that the
people were not content with the concessions granted after the fall of
Metternich and were loudly clamoring for more.
The Archduchess, “the only man in the State,” as she has been called,
was convinced of the necessity to crush these insurrections – not only in
the south and east, but also in the capital – by means of the army that had
so far remained loyal to the Monarchy. She remained firm and
unbending, and the direction of counter-revolutionary measures seemed
to fall naturally into her hands. She hated the Italians in the south who
had rebelled at the very moment of the Empire’s greatest peril, but she
hated the Hungarians even more, as in her opinion they were trying to
split the Empire in half and incite the army to disaffection. She did not
understand Hungary’s desire for autonomy, a constitution and its ancient
rights and privileges.
She was therefore indignant when the Archduke Stefan, the Palatine
[local ruler] of Hungary, consented to the formation of an independent
ministry with Count Lajos Batthyány at its head, and she fully approved
of the reaction to this move by General Count Karl Grünne, the
Archduke’s chamberlain, who asked to be relieved of his office when the
Archduke yielded to the Hungarians. She noted the episode carefully and
resolved to reward him one day for it.
But the insecurity grew worse and worse. On May 15, 1848, the
insurgents prepared to march on the Hofburg. The lives of the Imperial
family were threatened, and everyone, including the Archduchess, was
filled with alarm. It was impossible, she believed, to negotiate with the
revolutionaries under such pressure, so she did not oppose the flight of
the Emperor Ferdinand I and his family to Innsbruck under the pretext of
a regular pleasure trip, and indeed the Archduchess followed them with
her three eldest sons – Franz Josef, her favorite Max, and the amiable
Karl Ludwig, thinking it might be more possible in loyal Tyrol to breathe
freely, to consider what steps were to be taken next, to take measures to
suppress the revolution, and to work toward the restoration of the
Empire.

Meanwhile, the Bavarian sisters – Sophie and Ludovika – stood by one

another loyally. It was not far from Munich to Innsbruck, and in June
1848 the Duchess Ludovika brought two of her sons and her two eldest
daughters on a visit to her sister.

6
 The cousins now met for the first time, but Sophie’s eldest son, Franz
Josef, took little notice of the others as he was far too occupied with
political events, knowing that the Imperial House that was threatening to
collapse would one day be his own.
His brother Karl Ludwig, however, who was only fifteen, was
attracted to his cousin Sisi, who was ten. He followed her everywhere,
brought her flowers and fruit, and was in despair when Duchess
Ludovika left Innsbruck with her children. He had quite fallen in love
with his little cousin and she was flattered when he wrote her beautiful
letters in a marvelous copperplate hand.
The visit to Innsbruck was followed by a lively correspondence. In
June, Karl Ludwig sent Sisi a ring and a rose, and she sent him a ring in
return, with which, he assured her rapturously, he would never part. In
reply, she said that she, too, was wearing his ring, and went on to invite
him to Possi and to tell him about the circus riders and rope dancers she
had seen. Karl Ludwig wrote still more regularly in August and October,
and sent her a watch and chain that she had long had her eyes on.
But although she thanked him heartily, she never initiated any
communication and her letters were like those of any nice little girl,
telling him how delighted she was with the two “dear little lambs” given
to her by her Mamma that were so tame that they followed her
everywhere, and what fun they had had on their country excursions or
swimming parties, and how nice it would be if their cousins could be
there to share their adventures.
As time went on, the correspondence became less frequent, although
on New Year’s Day 1850, the Archduke sent his cousin a bracelet, for
which Sisi thanked him in her small, dainty, girlish handwriting on blue
notepaper with a border of flowers and red roses.

The Archduchess Sophie looked on this little idyll with motherly

approval, but this was no time for idylls. The situation within the Empire
was far too critical as the radicals under Kossuth had gained the upper
hand in Hungary.
On September 28, 1848, Count Lamberg, Commander-in-Chief of the
Imperial Austrian troops, was murdered in Budapest and open war broke
out between Austria and the rebellious Hungarians. Uprisings also took
place in Prague and Vienna.

7
 The Archduchess Sophie had watched these developments with
horror and was more determined than ever to take drastic steps to put
down the revolution. The Emperor Ferdinand seemed to personify the
weakness of the Imperial House and he could no longer be tolerated.
And now the plans that she had so long been preparing were carried
into effect. On August 18, her eldest son Franz Josef turned eighteen and
his majority was proclaimed. On this auspicious occasion Sophie
attached General Count Grünne to her son’s service as Controller of his
Household to mark her approval of his anti-Hungarian opinions. The
Batthyány ministry, the cool-headed liberal minister Franz von Deák and
Baron Eötvös, also celebrated as a poet, retired embittered into private
life. The younger members of the great Hungarian families, among them
Count Gyula Andrássy, now aged twenty-six, were forced into the arms
of the radicals.
On December 2, 1848, the Emperor Ferdinand I abdicated and Franz
Josef succeeded to the throne, sinking with great sobs of emotion into his
mother’s arms when the ceremonies were over.
The Archduchess might well take credit for having done her best to
prepare her son for the task before him. For his sake she had even
sacrificed her own husband’s rights of succession and renounced the
outward pomp of an Empress for herself. But she meant to be the real
mistress, watching over and guiding the young Emperor’s first steps.
Franz Josef was shrewd and endowed with a quick understanding,
and he soon grasped that his duty in life was to work hard, for which he
was well suited by temperament. But he imagined the situation to be
simpler than it really was.
He was naturally filled with boundless gratitude to his mother, so that
during the earlier years of his reign he was entirely under her influence.
The Archduchess Sophie was a politically-minded woman and had
directed her eldest son’s education into appropriate channels. The idea
she held most dear to her heart was that of the greatness and unity of
Austria, and what subsequently happened can be traced back to this
fundamental idea.
Franz Josef had no intellectual tendencies that were likely to make
him rebel against her guidance. He had no feeling for music or literature,
and even in his early youth, his ideas were characterized by clarity and
an appreciation of sober realism. For the present, however, he was
content to follow his mother’s lead.

8
 The task that now awaited her and the men who were devoted to her
ideas was to develop the program announced by public proclamation,
which was as follows: “In common with my peoples, to fuse together
into one great State all the lands and races of the Monarchy.”
But such a common effort was not easy to obtain. It had to be won by
military force. So, with heavy hearts, the rulers in Vienna had to make up
their minds to call in the aid of the Tsar of Russia, which was bound to
lead, sooner or later, to the collapse of Hungary’s resistance and the
frustration of Kossuth’s aims.
In Italy, meanwhile, thanks to the army, which had remained loyal,
Radetzky had crushed the uprisings in Lombardy and Venetia that had
had the support of Piedmont. The King of Sardinia was forced to make
peace and the people submitted to armed force with considerable
resentment. Lombardy and Venetia had been subdued, but they continued
to long for national liberty, and from this time on they offered a passive
resistance even to the most well-meaning of the efforts of their rulers.
But the revolution in Italy was handled much more gently than in
Hungary, where the brutal Julius von Haynau was given a free hand after
the Hungarian surrender at Világos and thirteen generals who had taken
part in the uprising were mercilessly hanged or shot.
Unfortunately, the Emperor Franz Josef, or rather the Archduchess
Sophie, failed to prevent these bloody reprisals as they had been
convinced by those around them of the necessity to make a terrible
example of the rebels. Even the President in Council, Count Louis
Batthyány, was executed. Numerous Hungarians were imprisoned, while
others – many of whom, like Count Gyula Andrássy, belonged to the
noblest families in the land – fled abroad.
The terrible impression made by these savage sentences, and likewise
the murders committed by the rebels, remained like a black cloud
hanging over the ruling Imperial House with its centralizing Austrian
policy on the one hand, and Hungary with its aspirations for liberty and a
constitution on the other.
The revolution had now been crushed everywhere and the way lay
open for the implementation of a reactionary policy. The Austrian
Constitution of March 1849 now recognized only a State “one and
indivisible” – including the “Crown Land of Hungary” – while
Lombardy and Venetia became mere provinces. Yet, in spite of all this,
Hungary continued to aspire to independence, and Count Gyula

9
Andrássy, who had been hanged in effigy for the part he had played in
the revolution, still pursued this ideal in exile. For the present, however,
there was nothing to be done and Hungary had to submit to the
victorious government in Vienna.
The government now had a free hand and could once more turn its
attention to Germany, where it hoped to check Prussia’s expansionist
aspirations. Thanks to his mother’s family connections, Franz Josef
could count upon Bavaria, so he was able to develop plans for the
overthrow of the March Constitution at home and a return to an
autocratic régime. In this he was in line with his mother’s wishes and
those of Count Grünne, who had been appointed his Adjutant General
and was in control of the army.
The great Austrian aristocracy grouped around the Court shared these
wishes too, as did the clergy led by Archbishop Rauscher, which was in
close touch with the Archduchess Sophie. But Italy and Hungary merely
tolerated the existing situation while waiting for better times.
The Archduchess Sophie had triumphed, and whatever may be
thought of her policy, her focused strength and confidence at a most
critical period for the Empire had achieved what she believed to be right
and just. But the course she had followed had not made her popular. She
was regarded as the head of a Court cabal, and those about her,
especially Grünne, whose power was increasing, were in the habit of
referring to her in secret as “our Empress.”
“The Emperor’s mother,” as Redlich rightly says, “was, and
continued to be, the central directing mind of the whole Court.”
In spite of the assistance given to Austria by Russia, the Archduchess
had little liking for that country or its monarch, whom she deemed a
heretic, and her feelings had an influence on her son. Thus the opening
of the year 1853 saw the beginnings of a growing ill-feeling against
Russia. Peace ostensibly prevailed within the Empire, but hostility was
still alive beneath the surface.

10
Chapter 2

Love and Betrothal (1853-1854)

The worst of the political crisis now seemingly being over, the
Archduchess Sophie felt she could take a further step toward realizing
her long-cherished plans, which included a favorite idea of hers – to bind
Bavaria, her native land, to Austria through fresh personal ties, and
thereby to promote the interests of her own family as well as those of her
Empire.
The Emperor Franz Josef was now twenty-two years old, looking like
a slender, elegant young lieutenant in a general’s uniform. Being entirely
under his mother’s influence, she could be forgiven for presuming that
he would accept, without protest, any wife she selected for him, and she
had long since discussed with her sister in Munich the project of a
marriage between her son and the latter’s eldest daughter, Néné.
An alternative, a proposed alliance with the beautiful and clever
daughter of the Palatine Josef of Hungary did not meet with her
approval. In her eyes Hungary was a subjugated province and must
remain in that position. She considered it far more important that Austria
should play the leading part in Germany, and that a new matrimonial
alliance with Bavaria would unite the Empire with one of the three most
powerful German kingdoms.
Reports from Munich were encouraging. The Duchess Ludovika
wrote that her eldest daughter was growing up to be a tall and very pretty
girl who knew her own mind, and was incomparably more serious and
sensible than the rest of her brothers and sisters.
Yet their mother was fonder of the others, and especially of Karl
Theodor and Sisi. The latter in particular had developed amazingly. Until
lately, in spite of her magnetic personality, she had remained an
awkward, not very pretty, schoolgirl, but now her appearance too
underwent a change. Her features became more delicate and womanly,
while her dazzling golden hair, tinged with brown in her earlier years,
was becoming astonishingly luxuriant and beautiful, in exquisite
harmony with her eyes that were as shy as those of a roe. But she was
still quite a child, whereas Néné was already a young lady who was now
learning to ride, not that she was particularly good at it.

11
 No sooner did Sisi see her sister riding than she demanded to be given
lessons too, so she soon became the third pupil in the riding school. In
less than no time she had surpassed her elder sister, being totally fearless.
Then, as soon as she returned home, she would hurry to her writing desk
and compose the poems that were her special secret.
In April 1853, she was confirmed. The occasion was to be celebrated
in the usual way with excursions, theatricals and games, but a shadow
now fell over the festivities. David Paumgartten, her favorite playmate’s
little brother, was lying at death’s door with inflammation of the lungs.
For the first time Sisi became conscious of the seriousness of life and
she was terribly distressed when her little five-year-old playmate
succumbed to his illness, and sadly composed some verses in his
memory.
Suddenly, she knew not how, a longing for death came over her
despite her life at home being so happy. The minor events of her life –
the regular moves from Munich to Possenhofen and back again – were
important landmarks for her. She was disturbed by emotions that she
hardly understood, and she was always restless and agitated. Tears and
laughter are so closely allied, and although a roguish spirit peeped out
from her eyes, tears often won the day. Although she was often cheerful,
it was vague longings, yearnings for love, and ecstasies that found
expression in her letters and in the poems that she preserved as her most
sacred treasures in a little manuscript book. The verses were often
written in red ink and illustrated with little sketches.
Sisi was fifteen when she became acquainted with a young man at her
father’s court who made a deep impression on her and whose fine brown
eyes quite haunted her, as she confessed in a poem. She would linger by
the hedge and wait for the young man to go by, but gradually people
began to notice, and her romance was discovered and brought to a hasty
end. The young man’s portrait was taken from her and she was ruthlessly
cross-questioned to find how it had come to be in her possession.
Her dream was at an end and she celebrated its passing in a little
poem entitled ‘Vorbei!’ [Past!]. The young man was sent away on some
mission and stayed away for a long time. When he returned, he was ill,
although this fact was kept from her. His illness went from bad to worse
and shortly after his return he died. This too formed the subject of a
poem entitled ‘To Him’ [‘An Ihn’], beginning with the lines:

12
 Once more the die has fallen
And Richard is no more!

illustrated with a touching little drawing in which a funeral procession is

seen emerging from a gate, with figures like tin soldiers lining the coffin.
Sisi’s mother observed her little daughter’s strange behavior with
some anxiety. Her merriment seemed to have disappeared. When she was
spoken to, her eyes often filled with tears. Horses were now her only
pleasure, but she always wanted to ride alone – which could not be
allowed – as her thoughts returned persistently to the death of her first
love.
But soon new experiences erased the old; after all, she was still very
young. Winter came again and the roofs were covered with snow, and
soon thereafter a warm wind changed the scenery as if by magic. How
like grief, she thought, and how like love, “which melts away faster than
the winter’s snow.”
Other people now entered her life. There was a young Count who
often visited her father’s court, and once again ecstatic love poems found
their way into her book of poems, although this time it was a pair of blue
eyes that had touched her heart. One of them shows her asking the first
rays of morning whether they have kissed her loved one and asking the
golden moon to carry him a nightly message of love. This infatuation
lasted for a few months, but since her feelings were not requited, this
adventure too came to a painful end. A final poem confessed that at last
she had seen the “hard truth” and knew that he had only friendship to
offer her.
But she was too proud to linger over such thoughts. She took refuge
with her horses, and as she galloped across the countryside, the pains of
love faded away. She was allowed great freedom, because, with so many
children to look after, there was no time to worry about her overmuch.
Besides, everybody was preoccupied with Néné’s future and the
grandiose plans that were being made for her.
Néné , the eldest daughter, was to be an Empress, Empress of the
mighty Empire on the Danube that had now regained its former strength
to become perhaps even the ruler over a Greater Germany united with
Austria. She must learn new languages, dancing and riding, be out and
about a great deal in society, and practice receiving a large circle of

13
people and saying the right things to them. It was Néné here, and Néné
there, and little Sisi and her troubles attracted scant attention.

Spring went by and summer arrived, and one day their mother
announced to them, “In August, Néné and Sisi are going with me to Ischl
to see Aunt Sophie. Isn’t that nice, children? We have been invited and
perhaps the Emperor will be there too.”
The Duchess’s sister, the Queen of Prussia, was already at Ischl and
great decisions were pending. Franz Josef knew more or less what was in
the air, and was so impatient that he left for Ischl on his fastest horses.
On the way there, Count Grünne discussed with him the Eastern
Question and the relationship with Russia, but his thoughts were
elsewhere because he was far more curious to know what this cousin
they were considering marrying him off to was like. He had not seen her
since 1848, although he had heard all sorts of things about her. The
journey to Ischl usually took thirty hours on horseback, but the Emperor
covered it in nineteen.
This delightful little spot had been chosen as a summer residence for
the Imperial family on account of its mineral springs that had once cured
the Archduke Rudolf, Cardinal Archbishop of Olmütz. Besides which, it
had excellent hunting to offer. None of the visitors rented a house at first,
and the Duchess Ludovika and her daughters took rooms in a hotel.
They arrived on August 15, an hour-and-a-half later than expected.
Their boxes had not yet come so they could not change their clothes, but
when the Archduchess Sophie looked at Néné and Sisi, she saw their
dazzling youthful freshness that could not be hidden under their simple
traveling costumes. They washed hastily and the Archduchess sent for
her own maid who dressed Néné’s hair carefully, while Sisi was left to
arrange her own.
The attendant made a few admiring remarks to the Duchess about
both the Princesses, but what had captured her attention most were Sisi’s
glorious hair and, above all, her charm.
At last they all entered the drawing room where the Emperor was
waiting. Their greetings were a little formal as even Franz Josef was shy
and Néné was quite uncomfortable. She knew very well what was at
stake, while the Emperor Franz Josef had that unpleasant feeling that a
man has when people are trying to marry him off to someone more or
less against his will. He saw before him a tall, slender, beautiful girl, but

14
although she was only twenty, there was something determined and
energetic in her face that was accentuated by her momentary discomfort.
The younger sister, on the other hand, was quite unconcerned. She did
not like parties and family festivities, especially when foreign relatives
were present, nor was she as accustomed to society as her elder sister
who had been going out for some time. But she knew, or at least guessed,
what was going on, and cast furtive glances at the Emperor and her
sister, curious to observe their expressions.
And now all of a sudden she realized that Franz Josef was not as
interested in Néné as he was in her. Whenever he believed no one was
watching him, he turned his eyes, as though spellbound, toward Sisi’s
soft, delicate figure, her glorious hair, and the sweet expression on her
childlike face. And suddenly his self-consciousness was at an end, but so
was his peace of mind.
Sisi blushed hotly and glanced shyly at Karl Ludwig. But in his
jealousy, he had also noticed that his brother was obviously looking more
at Sisi, whom he himself admired, than at Néné, in whom he ought by
rights to have been interested.
When they sat down to table, Sisi became quite uncomfortable under
the Emperor’s constant scrutiny. She was sitting with her governess at
the far end of the table, and now turned to her and said in a low voice,
“Oh, it is all very well for Néné. She has already met lots of people,
whereas I haven’t. I am so nervous I can hardly eat.”

Early the next morning, the jealous Karl Ludwig remarked to his mother,
“Mamma, Franzi liked Sisi very much, far better than Néné. You will
see, he will choose her instead of the older one.”
“What an idea!” said the Archduchess soothingly. “That young
flibbertigibbet…?”
But Karl Ludwig was right because jealousy is clear-sighted. Franz
Josef was indeed enchanted with Sisi.
Early on the morning of August 17, the Archduchess Sophie was
hardly out of bed when her son came to her room and said excitedly, “Do
you know, that Sisi is enchanting!”
“Sisi?” replied the Archduchess in astonishment. “She is only a
child.”
“I dare say. But look at her hair, her eyes, her charm, her whole
figure! She is gorgeous!”

15
 He did not even mention Néné.
“Gently!” said his mother. “You know nothing about her yet and must
examine her more closely. You have plenty of time, there is no hurry.
Nobody expects you to become engaged at once.”
“No, no. It is better not to take too long over these things,” was the
reply, and off he rushed in the hope of seeing Sisi again before dinner.
Failing to find her, he returned to his mother and talked excitedly
about everything in the world except Sisi, but it was obvious that he was
thinking of nothing else.
During lunch, the same byplay was repeated as on the previous
evening. The Emperor’s eyes never left Sisi. He almost forgot Néné, who
was sitting at his side, and did not address a single word to her, whereas
Sisi, sitting at the far end of the table between Prince Ludwig of Hesse
and the Archduchess Sophie, hardly knew which way to look in her
embarrassment.
Prince Ludwig of Hesse did not know what was going on. He only
saw his charming neighbor blushing at his side and hardly touching her
dinner.
“So far Sisi has eaten nothing except some soup and salad,” he
remarked in surprise to the Emperor’s mother. “She must be fasting for
some reason.”
But the embarrassment that was coloring Sisi’s cheeks was already
mingled with touches of triumph and pleasure at the attention she was
getting from the Emperor without any attempt on her part to attract it.
That afternoon, Franz Josef again spent time with his mother. He
didn’t feel calm enough to do anything else and she was the only person
he could discuss this matter with. It was now arranged that at the ball
that evening, instead of dancing the cotillion with Néné, as had
previously been agreed – and indeed as etiquette required – he would
dance it with Sisi, and anyone accustomed to Court balls knows what
that means. To dance twice in succession with the same partner in the
cotillion almost amounts to a declaration.
In the evening, the two sisters and their mother appeared at the ball,
Néné in a splendid white silk dress with a garland of ivy around her
forehead, and Sisi in a dainty, light pink-and-white muslin dress, with a
little diamond arrow holding the golden-brown waves of her hair back
from her face.

16
 As Sisi entered the room, every eye was upon her as it was already
known that she had bewitched the Emperor, although she did not think
he was really in earnest yet. Her manner toward Franz Josef was as
unembarrassed as ever, and she held out her hand to him frankly and
without constraint. But it frightened her to be stared at by all these other
people.
The Emperor did not dance the first or second polka, but said to his
mother, “I would like to see Sisi dance first.” So the Archduchess sent an
aide-de-camp, Major Baron Weckbecker, over to her niece and he asked
her to dance the second polka.
Sisi danced well, although it was evident that she was fresh from
dancing classes, and she could feel how Franz Josef was looking at her
as if he could not tear his eyes away.
Midnight came around, and in accordance with a charming old
custom, the leader of the cotillion marshalled the dancers. The great
moment had arrived and the Emperor had chosen to dance with Sisi.
Now everyone could see what was happening – everyone, at least, except
for Sisi herself, although she noticed how, in addition to the usual
flowers, Franz Josef offered her all the rest of the bouquets that he
should really have presented to the other women with whom he had
danced.
When Sisi was asked after the ball whether this had not surprised her,
all she replied was, “No, it only embarrassed me.”

On the following day, August 18, the Emperor’s twenty-third birthday, it

poured with rain and it was impossible to go out all morning, so they
stayed indoors.
Everybody had gotten up late except Franz Josef, who had been
unable to sleep, and again he visited his mother’s room immediately after
rising.
At lunch, Sisi sat beside Franz Josef, and Néné was placed at the far
end of the table where Sisi had sat the day before. The Emperor was
radiant, cheerful and talkative, and kept looking at Sisi rapturously.
After lunch, Néné, the Emperor, his mother and Sisi went for a drive
in a closed carriage as the weather had improved somewhat. But the only
one to talk during this brief excursion was Néné, who spoke rather too
loudly, too often, and too cheerfully, giving a rather forced and artificial
impression.

17
 The drive did not last very long. When they got home, the Emperor
had a private talk with his mother again, this time requesting her to go
and ask the Duchess Ludovika to sound Sisi out as to whether she would
accept his hand. “But please beg her not to bring the slightest pressure to
bear upon Sisi, as my position [as Emperor] is such a difficult one, that
God knows it is no pleasure to share it with me.”
“But, my dear child,” replied his mother, “how can you suppose that
any woman would not be happy to brighten your life with her charm and
good nature?”
The Archduchess saw that she would have to reconcile herself to the
fact that her son’s wife would be not the sensible Néné but the rather
girlish Sisi. At the bottom of her heart she felt this to be absurd. An
Empress ought to be a mature woman, not a child still lacking in
education. But what was to be done? Men are rarely willing to allow
their mothers to dictate to them whom they should marry. After all, Franz
Josef was obeying her at least in part as he was marrying a sister of the
Princess she had chosen for him. Besides, she thought, all men are alike.
They will always marry a pretty face, even if everything else is open to
question, as in this case.
The Emperor’s mother felt sure that any further objections on her part
would be useless and might even endanger her plan of a marriage
between Franz Josef and one of her sister’s daughters, so she decided to
give way, although not without certain mental reservations.
‘I shall take Sisi in hand,’ she thought, ‘and shape her into how I
think an Empress ought to behave.’
Sophie now informed her sister Ludovika of the Emperor’s wish.
With tears in her eyes, Sisi’s mother clasped the Archduchess’s hand in a
touching state of agitation, as up to the last moment she had feared that
her sister’s plans might come to nothing. And after all, the fact that they
were being fulfilled in such an unexpected way could be ascribed to
divine providence.
After tea, some Tyrolean singers gave a performance in the dining
room. On going to her room for a moment, the Archduchess Sophie met
Rodi, Sisi’s governess, and said to her hastily, “This evening the Duchess
Ludovika will tell Sisi that the Emperor wishes her to be his wife.”
In great excitement, Rodi hurried off to tell Sisi.
In the evening, her mother came to Sisi and was about to tell her how
matters stood when Sisi gave her to understand that she knew already.

18
When asked whether she could love the Emperor, she broke down
completely and burst into tears.
“How could I not love him?” she replied. “But how can he think of
me? I am so young and unimportant. I would do everything to make the
Emperor happy, but will I be successful?”
The following day, the 19th, Sisi, in tears, poured out her heart to her
governess.
“Yes, I am already fond of the Emperor,” she said, “if only he were
not an Emperor!”
Her future rank alarmed her. She could hardly collect her thoughts
and simply could not take in all that had happened to her so suddenly,
although everybody around her spoke of it as an inexplicable piece of
good fortune.
After her talk with Sisi, during which Sisi wept a great deal more and
said very little, her mother wrote a touching note to the Archduchess
Sophie telling her of Sisi’s consent. It was hardly more than seven
o’clock in the morning when the Archduchess sent on the note to Franz
Josef, who hurried in to see her immediately, radiant with delight.
Before eight o’clock, he was at the hotel, where first he met the
Duchess, thanked her, and told her how happy he was. Then he left her
unceremoniously to find Sisi. She was already up and came to the door
where Franz Josef threw open his arms, hugged her tight and kissed her,
wild with happiness.
Elise of Prussia arrived just at this moment and saw the whole
touching scene. She reported it to the Archduchess Sophie laughingly but
enthusiastically, and now the sisters forgot Néné and all their previous
plans, and only celebrated that one of their nieces at any rate was to be
Empress of Austria. Everything was alright after all. Only Karl Ludwig
stood apart rather silently amid the joyous turmoil, and for a moment it
seemed as though he was forcing back his tears. Then he pulled himself
together and wished Sisi the greatest happiness in the world and kissed
her hands.
Next, the Emperor sent for Grünne and his aides-de-camp, and
presented them to his future wife. The general, too, thought to himself
that this child would be easily malleable to the Archduchess’s wishes,
even more so than her elder sister would have been.
The betrothal was now official and need no longer be kept a secret.
On the contrary, the Emperor would have liked to proclaim it to the

19
whole world, so happy was he and so enraptured was he with his
enchanting fiancée.

At eleven o’clock they went to Mass. The priest was already in on the
secret and all Ischl crowded to the church, which was packed to
overflowing. Then the Court arrived, the national anthem was struck up,
and the Emperor, his mother and Sisi advanced side-by-side toward the
door.
All of a sudden a ripple ran through the rows of spectators. What had
happened? The Archduchess Sophie had fallen back and little Sisi,
endearing in her shyness, had entered the church ahead of her. Sisi
herself would have liked to have been able to muffle her head in a thick
shawl as the curious glances from all these eyes around her were as if she
were being stabbed straight in her charming face. But was she not the
fortunate girl, the Emperor’s chosen bride, the future wife of one of the
mightiest of the earth’s rulers? And what was more, he was a handsome,
masculine young man, fresh and radiant with youth in his glittering
uniform. What more could a heart desire?
In a turmoil of emotion, the betrothed couple knelt at the most sacred
moment of the Mass, and when the priest descended the altar steps at the
end to dismiss the congregation with the blessing, Franz Josef took Sisi
by the hand as gently as though she had been some fresh, tender flower,
and led her up to the priest, saying, “Please give us your blessing, Your
Reverence. This is my future wife.”

The previous day of rain was followed by a gloriously fine Sunday.

Everything was fresh and green, and when the Emperor and his fiancée
left the church, they were received with a glorious shower of flowers.
Sisi grasped her fiancé’s hand nervously, and as he looked tenderly at
her, he was touched to see the confusion playing so plainly in her sweet
face and quickly ushered her away so as to spare her the rapture of the
enthusiastic crowd charging toward them.
In the afternoon, they again went for a drive through the splendid
forests surrounding Ischl. It was a little cold and Sisi shivered nervously,
not so much from the cold as from her overwrought state of mind. She
had brought no warm wraps with her, so Franz Josef took his military
cloak and wrapped it tenderly around her, whispering in her ear, “You
know, I can hardly express how happy I am!”

20
 When his mother heard this, she joined her son in his happiness and
thought to herself, ‘Perhaps it is better so, who knows?’
Yet, all the same, the upsetting of her plans rankled a little.
“You are right,” she said to her son when she was left alone with him
for a moment. “Sisi is very pretty but she does have yellow teeth!”
The Duchess Ludovika now telegraphed to her husband and son,
“The Emperor has asked for Sisi’s hand and awaits your consent. He is
staying in Ischl until the end of August. We are all so happy.”
This telegram caused quite a stir and Duke Max, too, was beside
himself with delight. ‘My wife has done some really good work there,’
he thought. But his dear little Sisi? A little scamp of a girl like that? Yet,
after all, she had always been a universal favorite and had grown to be
quite exquisite in her appearance.
Duke Max, therefore, set out for Ischl immediately and the news
spread throughout the whole of Bavaria like a flash, arousing enthusiasm
among everyone from the very rich to the very poor.
In Vienna the joy was more mixed. There, too, everybody wanted the
Emperor to marry. But since the violent suppression of the revolution,
the Archduchess Sophie was none too popular. Her hand was too plainly
to be seen in this engagement and the only consolation to be had was that
at least things had not turned out exactly the way she had wanted them
to.
Portraits of the future Empress were now hastily commissioned and
passed from hand to hand throughout the Empire. Everybody had heard
that she was the monarch’s own choice and was thoroughly curious to
see what the young girl looked like who had fascinated the head of their
Empire so swiftly and completely.

The betrothed couple spent the closing days of August in unclouded

happiness. Sisi had regained a little more composure and was beginning
to enter into her new role to some extent, and although often overcome
by sadness and fear when alone, she took pleasure in the really wild
delight of her fiancé, who was more entranced by her with every day that
passed, discovering fresh charms and fascinations in her at every
moment. Everything she said seemed to him clever, sweet and
captivating.
Sisi had her portrait painted while Franz Josef sat in the room with
her, gazing at her constantly. The artist told him that he had never

21
painted such a lovely face before, and this was no mere flattery.
All this produced its effect upon Sisi, and by the end of her visit she
felt close to real happiness. It was only with the Emperor’s mother that
she did not feel quite at home. The Archduchess often cast covertly
critical glances at her or else expressly found fault with her. She even
told the Duchess Ludovika that Sisi ought to take more care of her teeth.
Sisi felt quite insulted at this and even a little rebellious. But such things
were but small shadows in a picture so full of light.

And now came the day they had to part; Franz Josef must once more
assume “the yoke,” and Sisi must return home to Possi. Sisi always
disliked partings, whether from people she loved, her pets, or even
places, and she found it hard now, too. But Franz Josef would not be
away from her for long. He was far too captivated by his new fiancée
and would certainly wish to see her again soon, and sad also as he was to
be forced to settle down again to his affairs in Vienna after his “divine
time in Ischl.”
“It was hard and depressing,” he wrote to his mother, “to take a leap
from the earthly paradise of Ischl to this writing desk existence with
masses of papers representing all my cares and troubles.”

On the way home, and when she was back again in quiet Possi, Sisi
thought over her new position. What had happened to her? She had set
out for Ischl with no idea of what was awaiting her there, and now here
she was returning home engaged without her ever willing it. She was to
be a great and powerful Empress and rule over a gigantic empire with its
countless and varied peoples, of whose languages and customs she had
no knowledge, and yet she was only really a frightened little girl. All the
same, she was firmly resolved to live her own life and follow the desires
of her own mind and heart. With her uncontrollable love of freedom and
independence, how much of it would she be allowed to retain now?
Freedom had been her old love and now a new love had come to her so
quickly and suddenly.
Sisi looked out of the window and watched the flight of the swallows
that she had so often envied because they were free from all earthly
limitations, all duties and laws – or, at least, they seemed to be. And she
wished she might be one of them, far removed from all that threatened
her, with all that seemed so beautiful and mysterious, yet might perhaps

22
be so dangerous as well. And once again, as in her early days of girlish
romance, Sisi confided her longings to her manuscript book.

O swallow, thy swift pinions lend me,

And be my guide to lands afar,
Happy to break the toils that bind me
And shatter every prison bar.

Oh, could I but with thee be fleeing

Through blue eternities of sky,
How I would praise with all my being -
The God, whom men call Liberty.

How soon would I forget all sorrow,

Forget the old love and the new,
And never fear a sad tomorrow
Nor let the tears my cheeks bedew.

Up until this point Sisi had been left very much alone and in peace,
allowed to do whatever she liked, but now she had suddenly become the
center of attention and no less than three artists had been commissioned
to paint her.
The best of the portraits was to be for the Emperor. This was urgently
required as the portrait by the Viennese painter Kaiser was so bad that it
made her look like a “white negress.” Franz Josef had it seized
immediately and taken out of circulation.
At the end of September a courier from Vienna brought Sisi a
miniature of him, painted in Ischl and splendidly set in a diamond
bracelet. And a visit from Franz Josef was already arranged for the
middle of October.
Now, too, arrangements for her trousseau demanded attention,
although Sisi did not take as much pleasure in this as a girl of her age
and position might have been expected to. She saw more and more
clearly that she no longer belonged to herself alone. The Archduchess
Sophie sent sketches from Ischl to remind her of the happy days there,
and on December 29 Sisi thanked her for them in a nice letter in which
she unselfconsciously addressed her aunt using the intimate form of
“you,” and spoke of her impatience to see the Emperor again.

23
 However, while she was absorbed in her dreams and emotions, Franz
Josef showed that, for all that he was very much in love, he was still a
stickler for everything being done according to the official protocol and
in the right order. He therefore wished to send a formal demand for the
hand of H.R.H. the Princess Elisabeth, Duchess in Bavaria, to the Court
of Munich, and was only dissuaded from doing so when his Ambassador
in Munich explained to him in great detail that this was unnecessary.
At last, on October 11, 1853, Franz Josef was able to rush to his
fiancée’s side. He paid a hasty visit to the King in Munich and then went
on to Possenhofen, eager to hold Sisi in his arms.
He was so exuberantly happy that it was a pleasure to see him. He
entirely laid aside his Imperial dignity and was cheerful and lively. He
romped and played with his fiancée’s younger brothers and sisters in the
wildest of high spirits, as though he was a child himself.
He found Sisi, if it were possible, even lovelier and more charming
than ever, as she was much more natural and at her ease at Possi than she
had been in Ischl. He had quite a surprise when he saw her on horseback
and was so enchanted by it that he quite forgot his mother’s express
instructions that he must warn the Duchess not to let her delicate little
daughter ride too much, although riding was such a passion of Sisi’s that
it would probably have been impossible to restrain her.
He wrote ecstatically to his mother about his fiancée and was able to
report that her teeth were now perfectly white.
On October 15, after his visit to Sisi’s family, they all returned to
Munich, where Queen Marie’s birthday was being celebrated with great
splendor. In the evening there was a gala performance at the Court
theater. The management, with a curious lack of tact, had proposed the
opera ‘William Tell,’ the central point of which is the clash between the
Austrian bailiff, Gessler, and the free and noble Swiss hero.
The King realized this and forbade the performance, so another opera
had to be proposed. But the next choice was ‘Katharina Cornaro,’ by
Lachner, the Bavarian General Director of Music, that was a case of
falling straight out of the frying pan into the fire, as the opera, performed
before the Emperor and his newly-engaged bride as an expression of the
delight felt by all of Bavaria, began with the breaking-off of a solemn
betrothal and ended with the sufferings of a dying king.
As the Emperor and his fiancée entered their box, there was a storm
of cheering. Sisi started back nervously and felt so utterly distressed at

24
being the center of attention that those who knew her well almost pitied
her.

The following days were taken up with Court festivities. At the ball held
in the great ballroom of the Royal palace, Sisi enchanted everybody, and
everyone wondered how such a prodigy of beauty and grace had gone
unnoticed for so long. But she herself did not share in the general
delight, being unspeakably bored and embarrassed when the whole
diplomatic corps was presented to her, although she saw nothing but
admiration on every face.
The Prussian Ambassador was the only one to observe these
proceedings with a grudging eye. “Franz Josef’s visit,” he reported, “has
caused wild enthusiasm in Munich. Attempts are already being made to
exploit this to the detriment of the Bavarian friendship with Prussia.”
The Ambassador complained about the Emperor’s suite, whose
attitude – and especially that of Count Grünne – was calculated to wound
Bavarian susceptibilities. Nor did Sisi gain a very pleasant impression of
her future husband’s Adjutant General, as his manner toward her seemed
condescending and slyly ironic, something that she found simply
unbearable.
On October 21, Franz Josef had to go home, which he did with a
heavy heart. He had been so happy, especially at Possenhofen, and
thanked his mother for having been the author of his happiness so
heartily as to suppress any recollection he may have had of his own part
in it.
“I love Sisi more every day,” he wrote ecstatically, “and feel surer
than ever that no other woman would suit me as well as she does.”

After the Emperor’s visit, the whole Court felt proud and delighted, not
to mention the people in general, and so did Sisi’s father, Duke Max. His
Round Table, known as “Old England,” congratulated him in
characteristic fashion at a dinner on October 30, 1853, when a collection
of twenty-five “Leberreime” and poems was performed before him to
celebrate both the betrothal and the Duke and Duchess’s own silver
wedding anniversary. In the exuberance of the occasion, the company
rather forgot the respect due to Royalty when a Leberreim in honor of the
Emperor’s future father-in-law made Schwiegervater [father-in-law]
rhyme most indecorously with Kater [tomcat].

25
 The liver of a pike it is, and not that of a tomcat.
We hope the future father-in-law will thoroughly enjoy that!

The incident became the talk of Munich, and Duke Max got into
trouble with the Royal family. It had to be brought to his attention that he
was no longer merely a private individual because, since his daughter’s
betrothal, the whole world took an interest in him and his family, a state
of affairs as unwelcome to the Duke as to the Duchess, who would both
have preferred to continue living as they always had.

It now became necessary to instruct Sisi in the history and politics not
only of Austria but also of Hungary, because until now she had had little
knowledge of the subject. In the literary group frequented by Duke Max,
there was a certain Count John Majláth, a Hungarian, who had made a
study of history. He now became Sisi’s tutor and suddenly revealed to
her receptive mind a whole world of poetry that was purely Hungarian.
Majláth represented to her in glowing colors the chivalrous impulse
latent in every Hungarian heart, and the strength and courage of this
people of dashing horsemen, until, even before she had set foot on
Hungarian soil, she was fired up with the emotions that throbbed in the
veins of this ardent patriot. Majláth visited the Princess three times a
week and she was always glad to see him, although before this she had
always hated lessons and had escaped from them as soon as possible.
She showed him with delight the splendid presents arriving from
Vienna. On November 19, her name day, one of the palace police
guarding the Emperor brought her a magnificent brooch in the shape of a
diamond bouquet, and in the early morning of December 21, the
Emperor arrived in Munich in readiness for Christmas Eve, which was
also Sisi’s birthday.
It was very late when he arrived at her father’s palace, but he insisted
upon seeing her at once, and at his request his whole visit was spent
entirely en famille so that he could spend all his time with Sisi.
On Christmas Eve they exchanged portraits, each of them having
been painted on horseback.
When they gathered around the Christmas tree, the Emperor offered
his fiancée a bouquet of magnificent flowers that had arrived by express
courier from his greenhouses in Vienna only half an hour before,

26
together with a parrot from his menagerie at Schönbrunn. Among other
presents, the Archduchess Sophie had also sent Sisi a garland of roses,
perhaps as a reminder that she expected her to be a model of virtue.

But all too soon the political situation made it necessary for the Emperor
to return to Vienna.
Once again the Prussian Ambassador had critiqued the Emperor’s
visit. He claimed to have noted that Franz Josef and King Max had not
got on that well, and that the behavior of the Emperor’s suite was still
causing some annoyance in Court circles.
“Eye-witnesses assure me,” he wrote home, “that during his stay here
the Monarch closely observed every footstep and movement of his
fiancée, and that the very decided will that is a leading trait in the young
Princess’s character did not escape his penetrating eye. It appears that in
this connection some significant hints were dropped, and since the
Emperor’s departure, people feel that a rather more serious atmosphere
prevails in the ducal palace.”
Things were not really quite as bad as this, although there is an
element of truth in his words. The Emperor Franz Josef noticed on many
occasions that his fiancée had a will of her own and when she wanted
something it had to be done or else. His accounts to his mother of his
visit were certainly a little cooler this time, but he still found Sisi
adorable and loaded her with presents.
On Christmas Day, she had complained of how cold it was, so on
January 16 a special Imperial courier arrived with a magnificent fur
cloak for her. After all, she was still a child and so she thoroughly
enjoyed all these fine things. But what she liked best was the parrot, as
we can see from a tiny lace-edged note that she wrote to her former
governess, the Countess Hundt. Although she was about to become an
Empress, she remained faithful to her childish hobbies, still loving and
tending her pet animals and birds, and leaving others to attend to the
serious side of life.

The necessary formalities were already being dealt with in preparation

for the marriage. In the first place, there were obstacles of a legal nature
as Sisi was related to her future husband in the second degree on her
mother’s side and in the fourth degree on her father’s side. Both ties of
blood formed an obstacle in Canon Law, and the former in Civil Law as

27
well. But in the case of the great and good, these things are easily
arranged. A dispensation was requested from the Pope and he granted it
without delay.
Next, the marriage settlement had to be drawn up, although all this
was Greek to Sisi. “By her father’s love and affection,” she was granted
a dowry of 50,000 gulden, in addition to a trousseau and outfitting
“suited to her rank.” For his part, the Emperor pledged himself to
supplement this by a sum of 100,000 gulden, beside which he promised a
Morgengabe of 12,000 ducats in accordance with the custom dating back
at least as far as the ancient code of laws known as the Sachsenspiegel,
by which the bridegroom had to offer his wife a gift on the morning after
the consummation of their marriage in compensation for the loss of her
virginity.
Franz Josef also undertook to allow his wife 100,000 gulden a year
for her unrestricted personal use, this sum, specified as “pin money,”
being for her clothing and personal decoration, her charities and minor
expenses. All other expenses were to be provided for by the Emperor.
The Empress was further guaranteed an income of 500,000 gulden in the
event of widowhood.
The Austrian Minister of Finance received a command in the
Emperor’s own handwriting to have the Morgengabe ready in newly-
minted gold and silver coins, “in a suitable casket for offering to the
Most Serene bride.”
Next, the King of Bavaria had to make a solemn declaration that there
were no obstacles to the Princess’s marriage and seized the opportunity
to state in the deed that, as head of the Royal House, he gave his consent
to the marriage “with particular pleasure.”
An inventory of the bride’s trousseau and outfitting was drawn up in
minute detail, the exact value of every object being noted meticulously.
The first group of items comprised the ornaments, gold vessels and
jewels, and the second comprised the silver; but the third, relating to her
wardrobe, was the longest. In it were listed seventeen dresses for formal
occasions, fourteen high-necked silk dresses, six dressing-gowns,
nineteen thin summer dresses – pink, violet, corn-colored and forget-me-
not blue – and four ball dresses. Next came sixteen hats and veils, the
hats being trimmed with feathers, roses or violets, and including the
garden hat with a garland of wild flowers that had enchanted Franz Josef

28
in Ischl. Six cloaks, eight lighter mantles, and five capelets of velvet and
thick cloth completed the outfitting.
Then came the rich undergarments, including fourteen dozen shifts –
one dozen of batiste with exquisite Valenciennes lace – fourteen dozen
pairs of stockings – from the finest silk to the heaviest woolen ones for
winter – six dozen petticoats, five dozen drawers, dressing capes,
negligés etc.
Then there were the boots and shoes: six of every kind and twenty
dozen handkerchiefs of all types and colors.
Attempts were made to interest Sisi in her outfitting, but she could
not bear the endless fittings and the fuss going on all around her, and
slipped away as often as she could. The seamstresses and dressmakers
complained that the Princess was never there, and when they did succeed
in getting hold of her, she wanted to finish with them at once in order to
escape again. People complained that it was difficult to work with her,
although it was a pleasure too, as it was a joy to dress such a slender,
enchanting figure and to adorn it in a way becoming of an Emperor’s
bride.
On March 15, the Emperor arrived on another visit and handed his
fiancée his mother’s wedding present, the magnificent tiara, necklace
and earrings of opals and diamonds that she had worn on her own
wedding day, and which were as valuable as all the rest of the bride’s
jewels and ornaments put together. At the same time, however, the
Emperor mentioned, as though in passing, that his mother had been quite
shocked at being addressed with the intimate form of “you” in Sisi’s last
letter.
“You must not do this,” he said. “Even I, her own son, write to her
with the formal 'you' out of the respect and veneration due to an older
woman.”
Sisi shook her head as she thought an aunt, who was also to be her
mother-in-law, ought surely to be addressed intimately. However, if the
Emperor wished it, it must be right, and her letter of thanks for this
splendid present made use of the formal “you.” There was, however, a
noticeably colder feeling to it, although it said how happy Sisi felt at the
thought that she could rely confidently on the Archduchess’s motherly
love always and in all circumstances.
But a bitter taste had been left behind. Sisi felt that the Emperor’s
mother was always too eager to reprimand her. How good life had been

29
when nobody troubled about her and she could roam about the woods
and gardens at Possi without a care in the world. Now there was always
something ‘important’ expected of her, even if, in reality, it turned out to
be a ridiculous formality. For instance, there was her formal renunciation
of her rights of succession to the throne of Bavaria. The Princesses of the
collateral line would only become significant to the succession if the
Royal and Ducal lines of Bavaria no longer possessed a single male
representative, and Sisi alone had three brothers. But the familial laws of
the Royal House required that she must take a solemn oath to renounce
her claims to the throne of Bavaria and sign a deed to this effect in the
throne room in front of everybody.
Sisi smiled and then felt angry, but it was no use – she had to submit
to these long-standing customs. This was only a foretaste of a thousand
similar things that awaited her as Empress and she was very thoughtful
as she returned home after the ceremony.

The day on which she would have to bid farewell to her home drew
nearer and nearer. The wedding ceremony had at last been fixed for April
24 in Vienna.
On April 14, seventeen large boxes and eight small ones had already
been sent on before her. On Easter Sunday, April 16, a great gala concert
took place at the Royal Court in Munich, as the diplomatic corps wished
to pay its respects to the Emperor’s future bride once more before her
departure. This time Sisi appeared wearing a rich set of diamonds and
medals for the first time, looking exquisite and graceful, but very serious.
“The young Duchess,” wrote the Prussian Ambassador, “in spite of
the brilliant and exalted position that awaits her at the side of her august
bridegroom, seems to be deeply affected by having to say goodbye to her
old home and exalted family circle, and the expression in which this
could be read cast a slight shadow over the most Serene Princess’s face,
radiant with all her youthful grace and beauty.”
And this time the Ambassador was not seeing things in too gloomy a
light. The nearer the day approached, the more nervous Sisi felt at the
thought of the strange and unknown destiny lying in wait for her.
Once again before her departure she went out to visit her beloved
Possi. With tears in her eyes she bade farewell to the room she had
occupied as a girl, to her beloved garden in which the first leaves and
flowers were beginning to appear, her dear mountains and the lovely

30
lake. She recalled her early friendships, her youthful dreams of love and
sorrow, and as always happened when her feelings were particularly
stirred, she took up her pen and wrote a poem expressing her regrets.

At last, the day of her departure arrived.

On the morning of April 20, in glorious spring weather, Duke Max
and King Ludwig appeared at her father’s palace to say goodbye to her.
All public celebrations had been forbidden, but as the carriages drove
along the Ludwigstrasse from the Duke’s palace to the Siegestor,
thousands of people from all walks of life crowded the streets to wave
farewell to the departing Princess.
She drove in a carriage with six horses to Straubing on the Danube,
where the Imperial yacht was awaiting her. On one side sat the Duchess
Ludovika and Sisi, and crowded on the opposite seat were Néné and her
other sisters, while Karl Theodor rode on the box, as although there was
very little room, he could not be dissuaded from accompanying his little
sister at least on the first stage of her journey.
When Sisi appeared in her dark-colored traveling clothes, she was
greeted with tremendous cheering. She was very grave, yet sweet and
charming, and deeply moved. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and as
the crowd thronged around her carriage, cheering and waving to her, she
stood up over and over again, turning around and waving farewell to her
home, her dear ones, and her childhood.
And now a sheet of paper fluttered into the carriage as though to
console her. On it were these verses composed by the Austrian poet
Johann Nepotnuk Vogel:

Rose of the Bavarian land,

Starting to blow,
Shall’st by the Danube’s strand
Fragrantly glow.

Rose of the Bavarian land,

Bear well in mind:
No better gard’ner’s hand
E’er shalt thou find.

31
Chapter 3

Marriage, Homesickness and Golden Fetters

Vienna, the Imperial city, was en fête, as though determined to show its
monarch’s bride that her future husband enjoyed the love of his people,
and especially of his capital. Great things were expected of Franz Josef,
and by making him happy, his young and lovely wife would also bring
happiness to Vienna.
It was true that she was too closely related to him. The daughters of
Rudolf of Habsburg had long since inaugurated a series of matrimonial
alliances between the Houses of Austria and Wittelsbach, of which Franz
Josef’s would be the twenty-second, but the brilliance and splendor of
the wedding were to overcome all possible objections.
On April 21, Sisi and her family crossed the Austrian frontier, and
that evening found Franz Josef on the landing stage at Linz, ready to
escort his fiancée to the dainty lodgings, furnished in the national style,
where she was to spend the night, after which he drove back to Vienna at
full speed.
In the capital, exceptional preparations had been made and everybody
was praying for fine weather. There were threatening clouds in the sky,
but by the afternoon a strong wind sprang up and swept them away, and
the skies were radiantly blue as the flower-bedecked boat bearing the
bride came to shore at Nussdorff.
On the landing stage, the Emperor and his parents, the dignitaries of
state, and untold thousands of curious spectators waited.
The boat had hardly drawn up alongside when the Emperor leaped
across the gap that still remained, and clasping his bride in his arms,
kissed her rapturously before the whole assembly.
Pale and timid, Sisi now stepped ashore on her fiancé’s arm, dressed
in pink silk with a white lace mantle, while myriad throats thundered
forth the greeting, “Hoch Elisabeth, the Emperor’s bride!”
For a moment she stood as though rooted to the spot and looked shyly
at the cheering crowds, stirred to the depths of her being. Then she
collected herself, bowed to right and left, and waved her lace
handkerchief, while the sight of her gracious appearance inspired
renewed bursts of cheering.

32
 Franz Josef now tried to wrest her away from the crowds as quickly
as possible, so they all climbed into the carriages drawn by the
magnificent grays from the Imperial stables at Lippiza, and drove rapidly
to Schönbrunn, where the rest of the Imperial family was assembled to
greet them.
Here, too, the palace gardens were packed with a solid mass of
people, and although Sisi was tired and overwrought, and the excitement
and the fatigue of her long journey could plainly be seen in her pallor,
she had to go out on the balcony and smile and bow and wave her hand,
as would be her official duty from now on.
But even inside the palace she found no rest. Her Mistress of the
Household was presented to her, the Countess Sophie Esterházy-
Liechtenstein, a woman of fifty-six with a rather withered,
expressionless face. Sisi looked at her mistrustfully and felt repelled,
because there was something of the governess about her. The Countess
was, of course, an intimate friend of the Archduchess Sophie who had
chosen her to attend upon the future Empress for good reasons of her
own, as she knew that she could rely on her, together with the other two
ladies-in-waiting who were to be Sisi’s closest companions – a Countess
Paula Bellegarde, who seemed to Sisi to be nice and sympathetic, and a
Countess Karoline Lamberg, daughter of the general who had been
murdered by the Hungarians on the bridge in Pest in 1848. These ladies
were expected to train her in all the ways of the Court.
Sisi was prepared to find the festivities, the Spanish ceremonial and
the incredible splendor and pomp of the Imperial Court trying and
exhausting, but she had no idea what really awaited her. When she
retired for the night, a bulky manuscript was placed in her hand entitled
‘Ceremonial for the public entry of H.R.H. the most august Princess
Elisabeth,’ which she had to study in order that everything should go off
like clockwork the following day.
Being over-excited, she found it hard to sleep. Her strange bed, her
new surroundings, and all that lay before her were becoming too much
for her. However, Franz Josef was touchingly solicitous and tried to
make things easy for her by continuing to inquire what she would like,
and comforting her when she seemed anxious about having to get
everything right.
“Do not think about it, dearest,” he said. “It is all part of our official
duties and you will see how enchanted the people of Vienna will be with

33
my sweet bride.”
Early on the morning of April 23, everybody was in gala dress as
prescribed by the ceremonial, the women wearing crinolines, a fashion
introduced to France by the Empress Eugénie. The Duchess Ludovika
and her daughter drove in a six-horse carriage from Schönbrunn to the
Theresianum, the ancient Imperial castle, from which for centuries past
the reigning Monarch’s bride had made her entry into the capital.
And now, overcome by the gravity of the occasion, Sisi began to cry
and could only be calmed down with some difficulty. She simply could
not bear being stared at and it would be worse in the glass state coach,
drawn by eight horses, in which she was now to be driven all around
Vienna like some rare exotic beast. But her weakness was only
momentary, and suddenly a hard, resolute expression came across her
face, so that, for a fleeting moment, she resembled her elder sister Néné.
When she stepped into the great heavily-gilded state coach, decorated
with paintings by Rubens and drawn by eight milk-white horses bred at
Lippiza, she submitted resignedly to a progress that would have filled
any other young girl with unimaginable pride and satisfaction.
A new bridge across the River Wien had just been completed and the
Emperor’s bride was the first to cross it. The streets had been
transformed into a perfect flower garden, white-robed girls strewed her
route with roses, and enormous crowds pressed up against the soldiers
lining the way.
It was a Sunday on which the “Sunday’s child” entered her new home
in the Hofburg. She made an exquisite picture as she stepped from the
state coach, her cheeks flushed with excitement, wearing a rose pink
satin dress shot through with silver and adorned with wreaths of roses.
As she descended the high steps, her diamond tiara caught for a moment
on the top of the door-frame, but with considerable grace she rearranged
her hair and for that day at least her work was at an end.

The next day was occupied with preparations for the ceremony on which
the fate of an Empire depended. The Mistress of the Household once
more presented her with two thick manuscripts. One she had merely to
read through, but the other she had to keep and learn by heart.
The first was a nineteen-page lithographed program of the wedding
ceremonial. With a shiver she read about all the Allerhöchste and
Höchste [all-highest and highest] ladies, about those who were palest

34
and appartementmässig, about pages of honor and train-bearers, about
generals in attendance and the order of the procession, both to the church
and back again, right up to her very entrance into her private apartments.
“What are appartementmässig ladies?” she asked in amusement and
learned that they were those who had the right to appear in the Imperial
apartments only at stated times and by invitation, as opposed to those
who had the privilege of the great or lesser entry.
With a slight shudder she handed the first manuscript back to the
Countess Esterházy.
The other one bore the title of ‘Most Humble Reminders’ and
contained an account of the arrangements for the following day.
Laughingly the Emperor tried to dispel the cloud that had swept
across his bride’s face. “After all,” he said, “it will not be so very
alarming and we shall soon forget all about it in beautiful Laxenburg.”

At half-past six on the evening of April 24, Franz Josef led his bride to
the altar of the Augustine Church.
The sumptuousness of the spectacle inside the church is almost
impossible to describe: The magnificent vestments of the great
ecclesiastical dignitaries, the military uniforms, the ladies’ court dresses
and jewels reflecting the light of thousands of candles, produced a
dazzling confusion of varied hues.
Suddenly a stir ran through the glittering assembly and there was a
dead silence as the procession approached in state from the Hofburg. The
Emperor rode alone at the head of the procession, tall and slender in his
field-marshal’s uniform, covered with medals, a handsome, manly figure
in all the pride of his youth, and behind him drove the Archduchess
Sophie and the Duchess Ludovika. Between them sat Sisi in her white
wedding-dress embroidered with gold and silver, and richly adorned with
myrtle blossom, wearing in her glorious hair the Archduchess Sophie’s
flashing bridal tiara of diamonds and opals, and at her breast a bunch of
fresh white roses.
She advanced toward her prie-dieu with the utmost grace, looking
neither to the right nor to the left, deeply serious and as pale as death.
She felt as if she was in a dream, and the Emperor had to give her an
encouraging touch and glance before she rose to her feet and approached
the high altar with her bridegroom.

35
 Suddenly, as if they were coming from a great distance, she heard the
questions of the priest who was marrying her and whispered, “Yes,”
almost inaudibly, whereas the Emperor’s response rang through the
church.
And now the golden ring was placed on her finger and her delicate
hand lay trembling with emotion in the Emperor’s own.
At this exact moment there came a salvo of shots from the infantry
drawn up in order in the Josefsplatz. The thunder of artillery was already
heard from the city walls and at the same time all the bells of the
churches in Vienna began to peal.
Suddenly there was silence again. The venerable Prince Archbishop
of Vienna, Cardinal Rauscher, approached the altar and delivered an
address to the newly-married pair.
Sisi stood there as though under a spell and listened to his long
exhortation that seemed as if it would never end. He spoke of the
Almighty, of love and harmony between man and wife, and of the duties
and noble tasks of a Sovereign. She heard only a word or a disjointed
sentence here and there, but suddenly her attention was caught by the
words, “The sainted and tenderhearted Augustine speaks as follows: If a
woman loves a man because he is rich, then she is not pure, for she loves
not her husband but her husband’s money. If she loves her husband, she
loves him even if he is poor and deprived of everything.”
A slight flush crossed Sisi’s cheeks and she looked inquiringly at her
young husband. What did this allusion mean? Everybody must know that
she had not sought power and wealth, but everything had rushed up on
her without warning like a miracle, and she had been carried away,
whether she wanted it or not. And involuntarily she recalled how, on the
previous day, she had seen the Archbishop coming out of the
Archduchess Sophie’s room. Could these words have been intentional?
However, the kindly words that followed effaced the momentary feeling
of bitterness that had been caused her.
Nonetheless, she left the church with an even graver face than before,
accompanied by fanfares of trumpets and drum rolls, preceded by pages
of honor and dignitaries of state, in a stately procession flanked by the
halberdiers of the Imperial bodyguard, only to return to the Hofburg and
there endure the congratulations of the Court.
And now she found that an Emperor and Empress do not belong to
themselves. They had to submit to a flood of festivities. Sisi went

36
through all these ceremonies in silence at her husband’s side. Wherever
she appeared she was received with wild applause, but none of it gave
her any pleasure. At last she was a woman and an Empress, she who so
shortly before had been only an unimportant little princess; insignificant
perhaps, but all the freer and more independent for that.
On Friday the twenty-eighth, a series of deputations and receptions
had again been arranged, but finally Sisi objected. She was weary and
nervous, and felt that she must have a rest. The Archduchess Sophie
considered this improper, but Franz Josef understood her feelings. He put
off the receptions and he himself drove Sisi out on the Prater at noon.
The news spread like wildfire and all of Vienna streamed to the
Hauptallee. The Emperor had to make a wide circuit and leave the main
drive as soon as possible in order to enjoy the fresh air with his wife in
quiet for half an hour.
Most of the festivities were a misery for Sisi, but one of them she did
enjoy: the national festival on April 29, where the performance arranged
by Renz, the circus-rider, in which sixty splendid horses took part,
reminded her of her home and her father. Besides, Renz was making a
special effort. His troupe, dressed in medieva1 costumes, rode through
the Prater in a brilliant procession, the sixty horses splendid beasts of
every breed. On arriving at the fireworks area near the third café, they
came to a halt and a quadrille was performed with twelve grays and a
dozen black horses, after which all the riders formed a semicircle, and
while forty-four balloons in the strangest human and animal shapes
floated up in the air, Herr Renz gave an exhibition of haute école on a
splendid gray Arab mare. At the other entertainments Sisi could hardly
wait for the end, but this time she could scarcely tear herself away and
said to the Emperor on the way home, “It really was too lovely! I must
get to know that man.”
Sisi was a mere child, touchingly lovely and very, very young,
perhaps too young for her husband’s ardent and passionate love-making.
She felt it most acutely when, on the morning after she had become his
wife in the full sense of the word, the Archduchess Sophie insisted that
she must appear at the family breakfast table as she would have done on
any other day.
Sisi protested against what was to her a horrible ordeal that she did
not want to face, but the Emperor was still so used to obeying his mother
that even he did not dare to raise any objection. He was afraid that,

37
should she refuse to attend, there might be a scene between his mother
and his wife, so he begged Sisi to give way. She did so, but it was a
dreadful experience for her, and she returned to her room nervous and in
tears, while the Archduchess cross-questioned her son thoroughly about
it all.
Sisi saw little of the Emperor, who was busy all day. All those around
her belonged to her mother-in-law’s circle, and the Mistress of the
Household and her ladies-in-waiting were absolute strangers to her. She
had not been allowed to bring a single attendant with her from home, so
that when her husband was not with her she felt lonely and helpless in
the face of the covert power wielded by her mother-in-law, which made
itself oppressively felt even during the earliest days of her married life.
The factors that were ultimately bound to lead to a clash were already
appearing.
The Archduchess Sophie, with her vigorous and uncompromising
personality, was in the habit of crushing the individuality of everybody
around her. But although Sisi was only sixteen, she had a decided will of
her own and an uncontrollable love of freedom inherited from her father
and encouraged at home. Yet she was not allowed to take a single step
without her mother-in-law’s knowledge. Even at quiet Laxenburg she
had to be irreproachably dressed from morning until night, and was not
allowed to do anything contrary to etiquette or considered unsuitable
coming from an Empress.
Of course, Sophie meant all this for the best, of that there can be no
doubt. She was far-sighted and politically-minded, but nothing could
have been more utterly foreign to the Empress. She found herself
virtually a prisoner at Laxenburg, and since the Emperor had to spend all
day working at the Hofburg, she felt forlorn in a cold, strange world. She
had always dreaded what lay before her, but she had imagined it to be so
very different from this. She missed her home and her family, and looked
back sadly on her carefree life at Possenhofen, because now her whole
existence was a series of complicated ceremonies. Realities did not count
and appearances were everything, and that was so hard. The Emperor
was always kind and loving and charming to her, but when his mother
appeared, he always gave way, and besides, he was so seldom there.
Her chief consolations were her pets, some of which she had brought
with her from Possi. She would sit for hours in front of her parrots’ cage
teaching them to talk. Also, she still found consolation in writing poetry.

38
Just as at Possi, where she had so often turned to her poetry as a refuge,
so now in these early days at Laxenburg she did the same. Two poems
composed at this time, one entitled ‘Longing’ and another ‘The Captive
Bird,’ sufficiently indicate her feelings.
Her sense of desolation was increased by the Archduchess Sophie’s
unremitting pin pricks and she felt quite overwhelmed by the enormity of
the change that had taken place in her life. Until now she had hardly
known what it meant to be brought up by over-bearing and cantankerous
elders. When, on rare occasions, her mother had remonstrated with her,
she had always done so in the kindest of ways. But the Archduchess
Sophie took a tougher line and regarded it as her duty to make this little
girl who had turned her son’s head into an Empress with a strong sense
of duty. In spite of her good intentions, however, her manner was too
harsh for such a sensitive plant. If anybody was in the slightest degree
disagreeable or unkind to Sisi, that person became an enemy in Sisi’s
eyes, and whatever he might do or say afterwards, she would always
regard him with distrust, although she could be kind and even
ingratiating when she noticed that anybody really liked and appreciated
her.
This sensitivity was compounded by her realization that she alone
was the Empress, the first lady in the land, and this made her feel the
restraints she was being subjected to even more acutely, to the point
where she was despairing of her situation. This explains the sad poem
written on May 8, 1854, only a fortnight after her marriage. Too much
importance should not be attributed to it as it was written in a passing
mood of depression, but it goes to prove that her character was complex
and that she was liable to emotional outbursts that risked seriously
endangering her relationships with the people around her.

O that I had not left the way

That would to freedom me have led!
O that I had not gone astray
On vanity’s broad path instead!

Now in a prison cell I wake,

The hands are bound that once were free;
The longing grows that naught can slake
And freedom! thou hast turned from me!

39
 I waken from a vision rich
Wherein my spirit captive lay,
And vainly curse the hour in which
Freedom! I gambled thee away!

Sisi had to keep this poem carefully locked up because if it had fallen
into the hands of her mother-in-law, who knows what would have
happened?
Everything seemed to conspire to encourage her in this state of mind.
Even the weather forced her to stay inside at Laxenburg, and therefore
depressed. May is usually the most beautiful time of year in Vienna and
the surrounding countryside, but that year there were incessant rain and
storms, and the heating arrangements at Laxenburg were poor. Sisi
caught a cold and began to cough. Soon Franz Josef noticed her
unhappiness and, moved by her entreaties, thought of taking her to Ischl
as soon as possible and inviting her mother and sister to meet her there.
But it would be a heavy sacrifice for him to take her there and then have
to part from his lovely young wife so soon, because in spite of all her
moodiness and complaints, she bewitched him more every day.
But first, on June 9, 1854, the Emperor and Empress started out on a
tour through the crown lands of Bohemia and Moravia, which gave them
an opportunity to escape from the strained relationships at home. The
splendid fetes given in their honor enchanted Sisi, especially the
wedding procession from the Hanna in Moravia, equally famous for the
picturesque costumes of its inhabitants and the fertility of its soil, and the
brilliant tournament arranged by the nobility in Prague.
On this tour she began to familiarize herself with her duties as
Empress, visiting convents and churches, hospitals, alms houses and
orphanages, especially those for women and girls. Her sweet, simple
manner and gracious charm delighted everybody and attracted rapturous
applause. Everybody envied the young and lovely Empress with her
exquisite clothes, and none suspected that she felt herself to be so
unfairly treated at home.
While Sisi returned to Laxenburg, the Emperor still stayed away from
Vienna for a time. On June 29, 1854, he received a characteristic letter
from his mother which was absolutely typical of the relationship between
them, and of the extent to which the Archduchess concerned herself with

40
the smallest details. Symptoms had appeared that gave cause for hope
that Sisi might be pregnant, and Sophie at once began to advise the
Emperor on how to treat her, urging him to be very tender with her.
“But,” she added, “I do not think Sisi ought to spend too much time
with her parrots, because if a woman is always looking at animals,
especially during the earlier months, the children are apt to resemble
them. She would do far better to look into her looking glass or at you.
That would have my complete approval.”
This genuine motherly anxiety was well meant but the Archduchess
interfered too much. She was almost always at Laxenburg when the
Emperor was staying there, because she was afraid that his beautiful
young wife would gain too great an influence over her husband. She was
utterly incapable of appreciating her niece’s innocent nature; instead, she
denigrated Sisi’s childlike passion for nature, horses, dogs and birds as if
it were a crime. She was always finding fault with her and Sisi was never
safe even in her own room, because the Archduchess Sophie was always
visiting her apartments to see what she was doing and to spy on her. Sisi
complained that the Archduchess made an “affair of state” out of the
most trivial things, often scolding not only her but even the Emperor as
though they were a pair of school children.
Of course, Sisi was over-reacting, but she soon worked up an absolute
hatred of her mother-in-law whom she felt powerless in front of. Years
later she complained how miserable her life had been at this time and
how helpless she had felt.
The Emperor, naturally, could not be with Sisi during the day as he
always left for Vienna early in the morning and did not return until six
o’clock at night in time for dinner. Sisi would have liked to have
accompanied him to Vienna, but the Archduchess only replied, “It is not
proper for an Empress to go running after her husband and driving here,
there and everywhere like any young subaltern.”
On one occasion, however, Sisi persuaded her husband to take her
with him and was delighted to spend a whole day without seeing her
mother-in-law. It was so nice to get away from “dreary” Laxenburg for
once! But the young couple had hardly returned in the evening when the
Archduchess Sophie bore down upon them and gave them a severe
telling off. In fact, if Sisi is to be believed, the Archduchess was outright
abusive. After that it never happened again and Sisi remained shut up at
Laxenburg, mistakenly believing that the Archduchess’s behavior was

41
down to her natural spitefulness as a “nasty” woman, as she put it, rather
than to her anxiety for the welfare of her unborn child whose precious
life might prove to be that of the longed-for heir to the throne.
The Archduchess’s whole way of thinking was entirely foreign to the
Empress. During Sisi’s first visit to Laxenburg after her marriage, part of
the gardens had been closed to the general public and reserved for her
use. One day she noticed that it had now been thrown open so that the
public could virtually look in at her through the palace windows. After
this, Sisi scarcely ever went into the garden again, partly because it bored
her to be in full dress early in the morning with an attendant who was
watching her every movement, and partly because she disliked having
everybody looking at her now that she was obviously expecting a child.
But no sooner did the Archduchess notice that Sisi was no longer
going out than she came to her apartments, forced her to go into the
garden, and explained that it was her duty to show herself to everybody
so that the people might rejoice over the hoped-for event The young
Empress considered this to be “simply horrible.” She never liked being
stared at under any circumstances, but under such conditions she found it
absolutely unbearable, so she preferred to stay alone in the castle and cry,
although she concealed her misery from her husband as much as she
could so as not to hurt him. She knew very well how dependent he was
upon his mother, but she also knew how much he loved her and she did
not want to make this a bone of contention between them any more than
she could help. At heart, she said to herself, he too “suffered” from his
mother’s overbearing ways as much as she did, but he could not bring
himself to say anything because the Archduchess Sophie was her son’s
adviser in everything, even in matters of high politics. She approved the
policy of hostility toward Russia that had been adopted, which was not
being offset by any real rapprochement with the Western Powers, and
encouraged the young Emperor to distance himself entirely from the Tsar
who was so much older than he was. It was not understood until later
that, thanks to this, the Emperor would fall between two stools and lose
all his friends. For the time being it looked as though Austria was strong
enough to defy the Tsar.
Sisi had nothing to do with these matters and knew nothing about
them, thinking that in such things at least perhaps her mother-in-law’s
opinions were the right ones. Besides, the Empress was sufficiently
occupied with her own condition.

42
 In fact her pregnancy was uneventful and at the end of July the
Imperial couple went to Ischl, where the Archduchess Sophie had bought
the young couple a villa. There, to her delight, Sisi found her mother,
Karl Theodor and Néné, and the Archduchess Sophie was no longer able
to interfere as much as at Laxenburg. The summer went rapidly by, and
that winter, in view of the happily anticipated event, Sisi did not have to
appear in public.
Both she and her husband hoped that the child would be a boy, but
they were disappointed. On March 5, 1855, a little daughter was born
and was, of course, given the name of Sophie after the Emperor’s
mother, who was its godmother, Sisi not even being consulted. The
baptism was celebrated with the greatest pomp, the whole diplomatic
corps being present with the exception of the Russian Ambassador, as
the Tsar had taken umbrage at the attitude of Austria toward him and did
not wish participate even in an apolitical family party.
Sisi was overjoyed with her first baby, but here again she was
reckoning without her mother-in-law, who gave all the orders and chose
all the child’s nurses and attendants so that the mother could hardly ever
be alone with her child. Any orders given by Sisi were countermanded
the following day, so that instead of being a source of joy, the child only
became another source of conflict.
Since Sisi took no pleasure in seeing her little daughter if her mother-
in-law was always to be present, she finally gave up the struggle and
seldom went up to see the child at all in her nurseries that had been
placed, significantly enough, away from her own apartments. All this
was carefully concealed from the outer world and people had no idea of
what was really going on. They only saw the Empress’s radiant beauty
and splendid clothes, and the pomp with which she always appeared in
public. Before long she was overwhelmed with requests to intercede with
the Emperor, but in replying to these, her secretaries were instructed to
use the formula, “Her Majesty does not exert any influence in these
matters.”
In the summer of 1855, the question of the Concordat with the Pope
was under discussion. Sisi was a good Catholic. She went to Mass
almost every day and had no desire to do anything contrary to her
religion. But she already observed what an enormous influence the
clergy had over her mother-in-law, even in political matters, and how
much influence the Prince Archbishop Rauscher had at Court. When in

43
the summer of 1855 the Concordat was concluded, transferring certain
important rights and powers of the State to the Church, she felt vaguely
that in signing it her husband had gone a little too far in divesting himself
of his sovereign powers.

Franz Josef continued to anticipate his wife's desires whenever he could,

and on June 21, 1855, arranged for her to pay a visit to her old home for
the first time since her marriage. Her whole family came to meet her and
carried her off joyfully to Possi. Instead of the immature girl who had
left the castle, a beautiful, graceful and dignified young woman now
returned to it. She was in splendid health and went out for walks in all
weathers, even when it streamed with rain. Her mother pressed her to
confide in her and tell her what was depressing her, and she poured out
to the Duchess and Néné all she had suffered at the hands of the
Emperor’s mother. In the early days her attitude toward Néné had
seemed almost apologetic, but now the situation had changed and she
would gladly have been the one to stay at her beloved Possenhofen had it
not been for the Emperor and her little Sophie. She was touched by her
husband’s affection and her baby was more than all the world to her. If
only “that woman” were not always interfering between her and the two
people whom she loved the most!
Even when Sisi was away, the Emperor wished her to report to his
mother how she and her child were, but her letters were always very
formal, consisting only of a few matter-of-fact sentences, beginning
“Dear Mother-in-law” and ending even more coldly with “The Emperor
and I kiss your hands. Your faithful daughter-in-law, Elise” (not “Dear
Mamma” or even “Sisi”).
The Empress returned to Ischl and later to Vienna, and the daily
struggle went on. Once, on December 14, 1855, she had an alarming
experience. She was driving in a four-horse carriage to Schönbrunn with
horses that were usually perfectly reliable, but on the Mariahilfstrasse,
the leading horses became entangled in the reins and took fright,
dragging the other two horses along with them. The coachman was
thrown off his box as the four horses bolted with the carriage carrying
the Empress and the Countess Bellegarde. The Countess tried to jump
out, but Sisi had had a similar experience at Possenhofen and stopped
her.

44
 The horses turned into a side street, where the driver of a farm wagon,
that happened to be passing by, drew his cart across the street. The
Empress’s horses were brought down and the shaft of the carriage broke,
but Sisi and her lady-in-waiting were unhurt. Pale and nervous, they left
the carriage, which was smashed to pieces, and took a cab back to the
Burg, where Sisi described their adventure and its happy ending to the
horror of the Emperor.

Disputes continued between Sisi and the Archduchess Sophie, who had
taken absolute possession of her baby daughter. Little Sophie was now
being brought up in the Emperor’s mother’s rooms on a different story
from Sisi’s, so that if Sisi wanted to see her child, she always had to pant
her way upstairs, and even then she was not left alone with her. In
addition to the servants and attendants who made up what was known as
the little Archduchess’s “Kammer,” Sisi was always faced with her
mother-in-law, and often with strangers as well, to whom the old lady
was in the habit of showing off the child. And now, when she found
herself expecting another child, it tired her to go upstairs.
The child arrived at seven on the morning of July 15, and everything
went off perfectly well, but Sisi was very sad when, in response to her
anxious questions, the Emperor had to tell her that the baby she had
borne him was another daughter and not an heir to the throne.
“Perhaps,” he remarked kindly in a playful tone, “it is because you
did not follow the advice of that Rabbi from Pest who wanted you to
have his Hebrew poem posted up on your door while the baby was being
born.”
This time the Empress's mother was godmother although, in her
absence, the Archduchess Sophie acted as proxy. The new baby was
given the name of Gisela.
The whole monarchy shared in Franz Josef’s disappointment, as
everyone longed for an air to the throne, as was shown by the numerous
letters he received from the public offering well-meaning advice. Yet the
public sympathy was equally touching, and the Empress was amazed to
see a whole roomful of presents sent from every part of the Empire on
the occasion of the child’s birth.
But exactly the same thing happened to her second daughter as to
little Sophie. She was simply removed to the nursery under the wing of
the Archduchess Sophie, and was equally lost to her mother. Again, the

45
physician, Dr. Seeburger, whose advice had to be followed slavishly, was
entirely under the influence of the Archduchess Sophie to whom he
owed his appointment. With him too, therefore, there were constant
clashes. It truly annoyed Sisi that she could never see her children
without meeting with some irritation and she became very bitter about it.
It was an impossible, unnatural state of affairs, and she urged her
husband to put an end to it by moving Sophie and Gisela to rooms on the
same story as her own, especially as little Sophie was constantly unwell
and Dr. Seeburger seemed quite unable to work out why. The Emperor
adored his wife more and more, as, since the birth of her second child,
she seemed lovelier and more blossoming than ever, so this time he let
her have her way. He wrote to his mother that he had made up his mind
to move the children to the Radetzky apartments in the Burg as they
were roomier and more convenient, and the Empress would not have to
go upstairs to see them.
The letter was sent off on August 30, as both he and the Empress
were somewhat nervous about the effect it might have on the
Archduchess and they were starting out on a long-planned tour of
Carinthia and Styria on September 2, during which, for twelve days at
least, they would be able to live together without interference from Franz
Josef’s mother.
The most enjoyable day of their tour was the one on which they
climbed the Grossglockner. They stopped at Heiligenblut, one of the
highest spots in the world and a well-known place of pilgrimage with a
delightful Gothic church. The Empress was overwhelmed with the
splendor of the view lying before them and the Emperor shared in her
enthusiasm.
As always happened when the Emperor was removed from his
mother’s immediate influence, Sisi regained some influence over him,
and this was very necessary as, in answer to the letter of August 30, two
very angry letters arrived in close succession from the Archduchess
Sophie, reaching the Emperor during the tour. His mother was indignant
at the suggestion that the children should be taken from her and brought
up elsewhere. Her bitter animosity against the Empress was visible in
every word. She even threatened to leave her apartments and withdraw
from the Hofburg altogether.
Franz Josef did not reply at once because, even during this tour, he
was bombarded with documents from Vienna and always had to get up at

46
four in the morning to spend every free minute dealing with them. But at
long last he plucked up his courage and for the first time he opposed his
mother’s wishes, reiterating his desire that the children should be moved
and brushing aside her objection that they would have no sunshine in the
new rooms. Additionally, he entreated his mother to “judge Sisi
indulgently if she is, perhaps, too jealous a mamma, as she is such a
devoted wife and mother,” proceeding to use plain language about the
painful impression made upon him and Sisi when they saw their children
positively confined to the Archduchess’s apartments, and remarking that
he had a horror of their being “shown off” so much as it only made them
vain.
The Archduchess Sophie was filled with dread when she saw that,
slowly but surely, her son was escaping her power, and realized that soon
this might be happening in other than purely personal matters. For the
moment Sisi had triumphed, but the Emperor’s ambitious mother was cut
to the quick. The result was that the relationship between them became
absolutely intolerable, unleashing a flat-out war between them. Sophie
could see that the influence of the Emperor’s lovely wife was on the rise
and it was soon evident that her anxiety that her son might cease to listen
to her even in political affairs was not unreasonable.
Sisi knew nothing about politics and had, as yet, no ambition to
interfere in them, so that Franz Josef’s ideas continued to reflect those of
his mother. So far, it is true, these had not been very successful. Thanks
to Austria’s attitude during the Crimean War, which ended that year,
Russian friendship had been irrevocably lost. The words spoken by the
Russian Ambassador, Baron Meyendorff, upon leaving Vienna in 1854,
were soon to prove terribly true. “I am only sorry for the young
Emperor,” he said, “as his policy has wounded us Russians so deeply
that he can be sure of not having another moment’s peace so long as his
reign lasts.”
Again, the Archduchess Sophie’s dream of uniting the whole of
Germany with a centralized Austria in a great Empire with a population
of seventy million people was farther than ever from being realized. And
meanwhile ominous unrest was fermenting within the Empire itself and
prospects for the future were gloomy and threatening.

47
Chapter 4

Fascination as an Instrument of Policy (I856—I858)

Conscious of Austria’s disadvantageous position in world politics,

Emperor Franz Josef began to listen to those counsellors who held that
an attempt must be made to conciliate opinion in disaffected Hungary
and the Lombardo-Venetian Kingdom. He saw how his fascinating wife
had enchanted everybody in Bohemia and Carinthia, and hoped that the
same thing might happen in Italy. Sisi welcomed the idea of a tour as a
means of escaping from her intolerable domestic conditions for a few
months. Besides, she did not know the real state of affairs in the south.
The only thing she disliked about it was having to be parted from her
children at the very moment when she had emerged victorious from the
trying struggle with her mother-in-law now that the children had been
transferred to her own charge. Besides, she considered that the
Archduchess’s bringing-up had not done her daughter Sophie much
good. On returning from Carinthia, she found the girl pale and thin, and
against the advice of her mother-in-law, she decided to take Sophie with
her to Italy, leaving only the baby Gisela behind in Vienna.
Letters written from Milan at the time prophesied that the tour would
go off smoothly, but could not be expected to do much toward modifying
the political situation, and that the Italians would persist in their impotent
hatred of, and their systematic opposition to, Austrian rule.
However, on November 17, 1856, the Emperor and Empress started
out for Venice by way of Trieste. Among other places visited by the
Empress was the Ursuline Covent at Laibach. She had hardly started her
round of inspection when she asked the Mother Superior whether there
were not some Black women in the convent who had come from Eastern
slave markets. On hearing that there were three, she sent for them, gave
them sweets, and played with them, oblivious of everybody else, until
she had to be reminded that other visits awaited her and that it was time
to go. The Countess Esterházy, Mistress of the Household, was
somewhat indignant, but Sisi only laughed, which increased the
Countess’s resentment.
Little Sophie was sent straight to Venice, and on November 20 the
Emperor and Empress arrived at the heights of Opèina commanding
Trieste, from which they suddenly caught sight of the wondrous blue of

48
the Adriatic below them and the port flooded with sunshine and brilliant
with flags. There were the usual receptions, reviews, dinners and gala
performances at the theater. Outwardly everything was going splendidly,
but while the local dignitaries were being presented to their sovereigns,
rather a bad fire broke out in the municipal buildings as the fireworks
stored there for the illuminations that evening had caught fire – whether
this happened accidentally or not was not clear. The bora was blowing,
not very hard, it is true, but hard enough to serve as an explanation of
another curious incident that happened when a gigantic glass Imperial
crown on the ‘Galeggiante,’ a huge state galley intended for the
Emperor’s use when he visited the harbor, suddenly broke into pieces.
The rumors of malicious sabotage were concealed from the Empress as
far as possible, but it was impossible entirely to hide from her that, even
in Trieste, things were not as they should have been and that worse might
be anticipated in Venice and Milan.

For months past, preparations for the Imperial visit had been going on
feverishly in Venice. But here, too, difficulties cropped up in the oddest
way. The Royal Palace was being got ready and a carpet had to be laid in
the great dining hall. The room was decorated in red and white, and now,
by some clandestine influence, the carpet that turned up was green. Not
until everything was ready did the authorities notice that the whole room
was now resplendent with the colors of the Italian nationalist flag, and
things had to be hurriedly set to rights in time for the Emperor and
Empress’s arrival on November 25.
Here, too, they made their entry on board a splendid old state galley,
formerly used by the Doges on state occasions, that was moored off the
Public Gardens; but it was in an alarmingly decrepit state. The
authorities had done all they could to produce the outward semblance of
a brilliant reception, but on their way from the landing stage at the
Piazzetta to St. Mark’s, the Emperor and Empress had to pass through
serried ranks of people, all of who remained as silent as the grave. Not a
single “Evviva!” was to be heard, only the “Hock!” or “Hurrah !” of the
Austrian civil and military officers.
The English Consul General shook his head. “The crowd’s only
feeling,” he wrote home, “was one of curiosity to see the Empress,
whose reputation for marvelous beauty has naturally reached even here.”

49
 With painful emotions Sisi followed her husband across the Piazza di
San Marco and into the Cathedral, after which their Majesties proceeded
to their residence in the Imperial Palace, a tastelessly furnished building
with a perfect labyrinth of stairs and passageways among which it was
quite difficult to find one’s way around.
The Emperor and Empress frequently appeared in the streets of
Venice, but at first any attempt to cheer them was at once suppressed by
the bystanders. The masses persisted in their policy of silence, and most
of the great noble families stayed away from the city.
On November 29, the Emperor and Empress held a reception, but it
was noticeable that the Pisani, the Dolfin, the Giustinian and many other
families were absent. Only thirty out of the hundred-and-thirty patricians
turned up to pay their respects to their Sovereign. The ladies were more
numerous, but were not likely to forget that evening for a long time. On
leaving their gondolas, they had to walk more than two hundred yards
before reaching the palace through a large crowd of people who assailed
them with abuse and insults. It was impossible to conceal all this from
Sisi, and when she appeared in the Teatro Fenice, she could feel the icy
atmosphere as scarcely anybody saluted her and the Emperor, and the
boxes of the most important families remained empty.
The Emperor and Empress were not surprised as they had been
prepared for something of this sort, and they tried to shame the people
into good behavior by their example. Sisi’s sweetness and charm were
exerted to the utmost, although she found it difficult to make herself
understood. Prince Alexander of Hesse, the Tsaritsa’s brother, who was
serving in the Austrian army in Italy, said in his diary that she was “jolie
comme un coeur” [pretty enough to touch the heart], but he smiled at the
stiff little Italian phrases she had obviously learned for the occasion and
at her rather halting French. However, despite their political prejudices,
the Venetians were not insensible to her beauty. The longer she and the
Emperor stayed in Venice, the warmer the attitude of the populace
became, and people were already beginning to greet them here and there
with a friendly salute.
The situation really improved when, on December 3, an amnesty was
proclaimed and the confiscated property of political exiles was restored
to them. On the following day, Franz Josef and Sisi were received with
loud and repeated applause at the Teatro Fenice.

50
 Pleasant little incidents, which soon became known, played their part
in improving popular sentiment. Once, while the Imperial pair was
taking a walk in some piazza, a man approached them with a petition.
“You must present that at the palace,” said the Emperor.
“I have already tried, Your Majesty, but was refused admittance,”
replied the petitioner, an ex-officer named Jura who had been deprived of
his major’s pension for taking part in the Revolution of 1848.
“This is not the place for business,” said the Emperor. “Come and see
me at the palace.”
“They will not let me in,” was the answer.
The Emperor was about to walk off when Sisi looked at him
imploringly and said, “Do give the man one of your gloves. Then we will
give orders that its bearer is to be admitted.”
This was done, the major’s pension was restored to him, and the
account of the affair soon did the rounds and produced a favorable
impression.
The British Ambassador noticed this improvement, which he
attributed to the Empress’s youth, rare beauty, charm and amiability,
“but,” he reported, “it all remains quite independent of politics.” The
sympathetic demeanor of the Imperial couple could change nothing in
this sphere.
In such an atmosphere, Sisi felt what was almost a physical sensation
of discomfort. The relaxing climate was not good for her and she missed
her accustomed exercise as she could not go around in Venice without
being almost suffocated by the crowds. Besides which, there was always
a risk of assassination or insult.
New Year’s Day was spent in Venice, and on January 5 they left for
Verona, passing through Vicenza. The same thing happened everywhere.
The peasantry and the ordinary people in the towns were not unfriendly,
but the upper and upper middle classes received them with calculated
coldness and reserve.
Their reception on the eleventh in Brescia, where von Haynau’s
brutality had not been forgotten, was worse than any, and the Imperial
procession approached the Palazzo Fenaroli amid an icy silence. Tears
came into the Empress’s eyes as she saw the distress on her husband’s
face.
Meanwhile, in Milan, the authorities had made every conceivable
effort to prevent the reception of the sovereigns from being marred by an

51
open scandal. Pressure was brought to bear upon the peasantry in the
surrounding countryside to come into the city for the day, thousands of
them being paid a lira a head. A report was circulated that, on his arrival,
the Emperor would proclaim an amnesty and reduce taxation, and
curiosity and the love of show did the rest. When the Emperor and
Empress arrived, the streets on the way to the palace were crowded with
a vast throng. Bunting floated from the balconies, which, by order of the
authorities, were filled with people, but not a single “Evviva” was heard
and the police were powerless against the silence of the vast majority.
Their most difficult task was that of filling the great auditorium of the
famous Scala Opera House. The police had insisted upon every box-
holder giving notice as to whether he was going to use his box or not,
and, if not, it would be filled by officials or officers. But Milanese
society sent servants to occupy its boxes, and only a fifth of the nobility
eligible for presentation at Court appeared at the performances or
receptions. Franz Josef hoped that his wife’s charm and beauty, together
with the amnesty and decreased taxation (although his generals advised
him against this), would improve sentiments here as it had in Venice. But
in Milan it had no effect. So few ladies of the nobility appeared at the
Court concerts that two hundred and fifty middle-class ladies were
invited, but even of these only twenty-six appeared.
“Though the Emperor’s visit is officially represented as having been a
great success,” reported the British Consul-General, “the open and
ostentatious aversion of by far the larger number of well-to-do and
intelligent Lombards is nonetheless a fact deserving of the most serious
consideration.”

The Archduchess Sophie listened anxiously to the news from Italy. The
strained relationship between her and her daughter-in-law was painful to
her, as her whole soul was set upon her son’s happiness and welfare and
all her actions were to be ascribed to her exaggerated maternal instinct.
So she now held out an olive branch to the Empress by sending her a
portrait of little Gisela.
Sisi was eager to get home. Life in the hostile atmosphere of Milan
was not pleasant and she longed for her baby. On March 2, when Franz
Josef and Sisi left Milan, the streets were no more animated than before,
and the people affected absolute indifference.

52
 They were glad to be home again after their not very reassuring
experiences, but the Emperor hoped that the tact of his brother Max,
whom he had appointed to be Governor in Italy, might make the task of
governing that very difficult country easier.
Sisi’s health had benefited from the tour and so had little Sophie’s,
although the people of Milan pretended, to her parents’ annoyance, that
the Emperor and Empress had only brought her with them as a sort of
insurance against possible outrages.
Sisi was wild with joy at seeing her baby again, but was hurt to find
that, due to her absence, the little girl had grown entirely accustomed to
her grandmother. She therefore took refuge with her pets, surrounding
herself with large dogs and spending much time with her horses, which
she petted so much that some of them would follow her like dogs.
The Emperor indulged his wife’s hobbies to the full, although he
himself did not care for animals and was especially indifferent to dogs.
He did all he could to persuade her not ride so often for hours on end, a
habit against which his mother never ceased to fulminate.
Sisi cherished a secret hope that one day she might be able to choose
her own ladies-in-waiting, as she felt the constraint of the Spanish Court
etiquette more keenly in her daily life than anywhere else. The great
noble families of Austria formed an impenetrable wall around the
Emperor and Empress. Nobody who did not belong to these families,
however great his personal worth might be, could get close to them.
Custom prescribed exactly who were to form the Empress’s circle: only
twenty-three gentlemen belonging to the greatest and most historic
families of the land and two hundred and twenty-nine ladies had what
was called the “great entrée,” that is, the right to appear whenever they
wished when the Empress was holding Court.
Sisi found this intolerable. She liked to talk to anybody who
interested or attracted her. The higher nobility were so accustomed to
moving exclusively in their own limited circle that they spoke a language
full of phrases and family allusions intelligible only to themselves and
quite uninteresting to Sisi who had not grown up in this circle. Thus,
almost inevitably, the relationship between the Empress and this group
became strained, and since they favored a centralizing policy and had
Greater Austrian sympathies, they inclined toward the views of the
Archduchess Sophie.

53
 The chief representative of this group in the Emperor’s entourage was
his Adjutant General, Count Grünne, who was virtually all-powerful,
especially in military affairs, until people said jestingly that the colors of
the army were green [grüne] and not black and yellow, the Imperial
colors.
This cliqued dislike Hungary for opposing their ideal of a centralized
Austria with its obstinate resistance to Hungary’s continued
incorporation into Austria as a mere province when it deserved to be
recognized as a separate and equal state.

Baron Bach, the Minister of the Interior, who, since the crushing of the
revolution had stood for the idea of Austria “one and indivisible,” now
felt that something must be done to try to conciliate Hungary , if
possible, by means of a visit, and win it over with an amnesty and
friendly overtures, as had been attempted in Italy. And, in view of the
national character of the Hungarians, the impression produced by the
Empress’s beauty and fascination was expected to be far greater than in
Italy. However, the fundamental idea of the Unified Constitution was to
remain unaffected, and the Emperor was determined not to depart from
to even the tiniest degree.
Their departure was preceded by yet another domestic conflict. Sisi
wanted to take the children with her, at least as far as Budapest, so that
she could enjoy having them both to herself, without their grandmother.
The Archduchess expressed some anxiety on the score of the little ones’
health, but Sisi thought this no more than the usual attempt to estrange
her children from her and persuaded the Emperor to let her have her own
way.
As soon as the prospective visit was heard of in Hungary, signs were
at once apparent of the distrust that was felt of Austria and its methods.
But although every Hungarian heart was full of opposition to the
political tendencies uppermost in Vienna, the authorities were able to
arrange for a magnificent, if not very cordial, welcome for the Emperor
and Empress on their arrival it Buda on May 4, 1857, by way of the
Danube. Sisi was enchanted with the beautiful natural setting of the
Hungarian capital and flattered by the unconcealed enthusiasm for her
beauty by both the nobility and the people, especially when she appeared
on horseback either in the park or at reviews of the troops.

54
 Although the days between May 5 and 13, which the Emperor and
Empress spent in Budapest, were fuller than ever of the festivities that
Sisi disliked so much, she felt remarkably at home there, and her
sympathy for Hungarian ways that could be read in her eyes naturally
attracted a corresponding love and cordiality. Rumors of the discord
between Sisi and the Emperor’s mother had long since reached Hungary,
and since the Archduchess Sophie’s attitude and the part she had played
at the time of the revolution were not forgotten, an obscure instinct told
the Hungarians that their nationalist aspirations might gain a friend, and
perhaps even an ally, in the Emperor’s consort.
Efforts were therefore redoubled to make her visit a pleasant one.
Greater reserve was shown toward Franz Josef, as although he had
proclaimed an amnesty, it was impossible to bring those he had executed
back to life, and the Emperor still persisted in his resistance to the
nation’s most ardent wishes.
But it was not easy to show affection for his consort and antipathy
toward the Emperor at the same time. Although the Emperor declined to
receive an address from one hundred-and-twenty-seven of the
Conservative nobility that contained references to a possible restoration
of the Hungarian Constitution, yet, as Bach had hoped, part of the
cordiality felt toward his wife was reflected upon him too.

And now something happened that seemed to justify the anxiety

expressed by the Archduchess Sophie before their departure. On May 13,
the Emperor and Empress were to have continued their journey into the
interior of Hungary. But now little Gisela suddenly fell sick and her
parents’ departure was at once postponed. Gisela recovered fairly
rapidly, but on May 19, the same symptoms appeared in little Sophie.
Dr. Seeburger at first maintained that they were caused by teething,
but it was difficult to believe him when the child began to vomit blood
and bile.
“The little thing cries and screams incessantly in the most
heartrending way,” wrote Franz Josef to his mother.
Little Sophie looked pitifully ill and her parents were in the greatest
distress, especially Sisi who could not help remembering the arguments
that had preceded their departure. But as soon as there were signs of a
lasting improvement, she listened to the representations made to her and
the tour was resumed, as the whole country was in a state of expectation,

55
large sums had already been spent on the preparations, and the people
must not be disappointed.
On May 23, they started out for the interior of Hungary, and the
Empress would have thoroughly enjoyed the sight of the splendid horses
and handsome people in their beautiful national costumes who lined the
route everywhere, had it not been for her anxiety about her children.
When the Imperial visitors arrived at Debreczin on May 28, they
received a telegram from Seeburger, which, in spite of all his previous
assurances, brought them disquieting news about little Sophie’s
condition. They broke off their tour at once and returned to Budapest by
the shortest route. Sisi hurried to her little girl the moment she arrived,
and found her in a very bad way, excessively weak and her eyes already
dim.
Seeburger was totally crestfallen, but when pressed with questions, he
would only say that he had not given up hope. The young mother was
filled with the wildest grief and did not leave the child’s bedside for a
moment. But she was powerless to avert impending doom. For eleven
hours the Empress followed with anguish every phase of her little
daughter's agony, while the doctors stood by helplessly. At half-past nine
in the evening, the little girl of barely two could struggle for life no more
and the weeping mother closed her child’s eyes.
“Our little one is an angel in Heaven,” telegraphed the Emperor to his
parents. “We are crushed. Sisi is full of resignation to the will of the
Lord.”
But this was hardly true. Sisi was prostrated with despair, blaming
herself and everybody else, and it was useless to tell her that the disaster
might have happened anywhere and that nobody was to blame.
The tour of Hungary was abandoned, and on May 30 the Emperor and
Empress returned to Laxenburg. Politically, however, this sad affair
produced beneficial results. Everywhere, even in quarters where political
discontent was rife, warm personal sympathy was felt for the bereaved
parents, and this momentarily took the wind out of the sails of the
opposition movements in Hungary.
Sisi wept from morning until night and talked of nothing but her
baby, and she felt her first meeting with the Archduchess Sophie most
terribly. Seeing the Empress’s grief, her mother-in-law tactfully refrained
from comment, but in every order and every word Sisi thought she could
detect an unspoken reproach suggesting that the disaster would not have

56
happened if only they had listened to the Archduchess’s wise and
experienced advice. Sisi was now nineteen, but she felt as though she
had been married for at least ten years, and could not understand that
Sophie’s attitude toward her was still that of a sensible old mother
toward an absolutely inexperienced child.
So great was Sisi’s despair, that her mother decided to come to
Laxenburg with her three sisters to cheer her up and distract her a little.
This was necessary because, at times, Sisi’s grief assumed very strange
forms. She had never cared much for being around people, and now, with
the exception of the Emperor, she would let nobody come near her, but
insisted upon always walking and riding alone, and withdrew entirely
into herself.
While she was in this state, there could be no thought of her resuming
the tour of Hungary, so the Emperor decided to return there by himself,
which naturally did not produce at all the desired effect.
Yet it was harder to persuade the Emperor to adopt harsh measures
toward Hungary than it had been before. A number of those who had fled
abroad at the time of the revolution now had their returns facilitated,
among them Count Gyula Andrássy who had been spending his exile in
Paris by no means unpleasantly. Liberally supplied with money by his
mother, the elegant young Count was an ardent admirer of women, a
welcome guest in the best houses, and the darling of the Parisian ladies.
Moreover, he no longer took part in the plots against the Austrian
Government carried on in London by Kossuth, but came out openly in
favor of reconciliation between Austria and his native land.
Every move made by the exiles was closely followed in Vienna. Thus
it was noted with approval that, furious with Russia for joining in the
campaign against his native land in 1848, Andrássy had declared that it
was not in Hungary’s interest to let the Empire of the Tsars be master of
the Danube and Black Sea, a point of view that was in harmony with the
anti-Russian tendencies then prevailing in Vienna.
Meanwhile, in 1856, the Count had married a Hungarian heiress, the
Countess Katinka Kendeffy, the political reputation of whose family in
Austria was irreproachable. In 1857, Andrássy was accordingly granted
permission to return home with impunity and his confiscated property
was restored to him. All this was eagerly discussed in the bosom of the
Imperial family, and later in the year news arrived that distracted the

57
Empress from her gloomy thoughts, as she now heard of her sister
Marie’s betrothal to the Crown Prince Francesco of the Two Sicilies.
Yet still the domestic conflict went on, although perhaps less overtly.
After the death of her daughter, Sisi tried to obtain the removal of Dr.
Seeburger, but the Archduchess Sophie managed to prevent this. The
doctor remained at his post, and in spite of her dislike for him, continued
to be responsible for the Empress’s health.
When she had a swelling on the bone of her hand, his method of
curing it was to lay two large silver coins on it and bind it up very tightly,
hoping that the pressure of the coins would reduce the swelling. Sisi
endured this for two days until she began to feel acute pain, whereupon
she tore off the bandages and had recourse to ordinary massage.

In November, the Emperor and Empress again changed their apartments

in the Burg, as their old quarters aroused too many sad memories and
were also too small for them now. The Empress was given the
‘Amalienappartement’ connecting directly with the nurseries, which was
particularly important to her as, by the winter of 1857, she knew herself
to be again expecting a child, and by this arrangement she was able to
spare herself undue exertion. Lately, too, the Archduchess Sophie had
become pleasanter, but by this time it was of no use and it still depressed
Sisi that she had to see her so often.
Once more advice was showered upon the Empress from every corner
of the Empire as to what she should do during her pregnancy to ensure
that the child would be a boy. She always had these letters shown to her
as she was a somewhat superstitious and longed for a son. Everything
unpleasant had to be assiduously kept from her, so she was not told
when, on the morning of August 16, the occupants of the castle of
Schönbrunn were startled by a loud crash that shook the very walls. The
great luster in the throne room had fallen down and lay in a thousand
pieces. Fortunately nobody was hurt, but this was the second time it had
happened in two years.
“I shall take great care,” wrote the Controller of the Archduchess
Sophie’s Household, “not to sit under the luster when I am at court.”
But Sisi would certainly have interpreted this as an unlucky omen.

The critical day drew near. On August 21, the Archduchess Sophie, who
was at Laxenburg, suddenly received a telegram, saying, “Her Imperial

58
Majesty is in labor.”
She at once left for Schönbrunn, and the first thing she did on her
arrival there was to have the Blessed Sacrament exposed on the altar of
the chapel. During her previous confinements Sisi had hardly made a
sound, but at ten o’clock that night she was in such agony that she gave a
heartrending shriek, while the Emperor’s mother and the Countess
Esterházy fell on their knees weeping and praying for her. The labor was
very difficult and it wasn’t until a quarter to eleven that night that the
Empress was delivered.
“Is it a son?” she asked anxiously in a faint voice.
“The midwife does not know yet,” replied Franz Josef, fearing that
the sudden joy might prove dangerous to her.
On which Sisi said piteously, “Of course! It must be another girl!”
“What if it were a boy, though?” he said.
Sisi’s beautiful face lit up with joy, but she still suspected them of
deceiving her and would not be convinced until she had seen her son.
For the first few days, the Empress struggled to recover as she was
producing so much milk that she could not rest and she was not allowed
to nurse the child herself. This constituted a point of friction that made
her very angry with Seeburger, but apart from this she was indescribably
happy. Franz Josef would have liked to give her all the jewels in the
world. He did not think his son very good-looking, but “magnificently
built and very strong.” When he was congratulated, tears of joy ran down
his cheeks and his love for his wife was, if possible, even greater than
before.
The Archduchess would now find it more difficult to get her way, as
Sisi’s influence over her husband was more firmly established than ever.
But, in reality, the Emperor’s mother rejoiced as much as he did, as in
her eyes the child was the best guarantee for her son’s happiness and that
of the Empire. Her one objective now was to bring the child up in
accordance with her own views and to shape him as she had done the
Emperor. She had little confidence in the Empress’s educational
capabilities – and perhaps with good reason – but she certainly went too
far in trying to eliminate the mother’s influence entirely. In view of the
Empress’s far from pliant character, this attempt threatened serious
conflicts for the future. Everybody concerned meant well and was sure of
being in the right, but they were all pulling in different directions.

59
Chapter 5

The Italian War and the Madeira Crisis (I859—I862)

Although she had settled in a foreign country, Sisi had never lost touch
with her own home, and one after another her sisters were getting
married.
First to go, in August 1858, was Helene, who married the hereditary
Prince Maximilian von Thurn und Taxis, one of the richest princes in
Germany. Next came the wedding of Marie, who, to the great delight of
the family, was marrying the Crown Prince of The Two Sicilies, with the
result that another of the Duke’s daughters would now get to reign over a
European state.
Marie was not as beautiful as the Empress, but she resembled her
greatly in her figure and had a strong and resolute will. Sisi traveled with
her as far as Trieste and looked on dubiously at the final ceremony of
handing her sister over to a Neapolitan royal official who was to escort
her to her husband in Naples.
Sisi would have liked to have done all she could to cheer on her
sister’s departure for an unknown land to join a husband who was still
more or less a stranger to her, but there was, as yet, no question of this
being a love match or even a friendship, and Marie’s first meeting with
Francesco in Naples was thoroughly uncomfortable. Marie could not
speak a word of Italian and the Crown Prince could not speak a word of
German either, and very little French, and even if they had been able to
understand each other somehow, they would hardly have known what to
say.
The Empress now returned home to her own unhappy domestic life,
and she was also beginning to become more aware of her husband’s
political anxieties. Piedmont evidently intended to take advantage of
Austria’s isolation after the Crimean War to press her claims for
independence, and continued to agitate for them until Vienna allowed
itself to be provoked into issuing a precipitous ultimatum, which led to
war with Sardinia, an ally of France. The decision had been made with
undue haste – even Prussia had been given no prior warning of the
ultimatum – and now war was imminent.
Sisi had never had any personal experience of anything other than
peacetime, but now that was to change. Nervous and impressionable, she

60
understood that the Empire was in danger, and therefore that so were her
husband and children, so she did not pay much attention to the lesser
preoccupations of her Bavarian relatives who were very upset at the
announcement of the betrothal of her eldest brother, Ludwig, to a
beautiful actress, Henriette Mendel. Everybody was indignant, but
Ludwig stood firm and got his way. Henriette was created Baroness
Wallersee and the wedding took place on May 28, 1859.
Meanwhile, in Italy, Grünne’s favorite, General Count Gyulay, had
missed the opportunity to engage the French and Piedmontese forces
separately before they could meet up. His command proved disastrous
and the Austrian army was soon in retreat. The Emperor looked on
anxiously until at last he felt that he must leave for the front in person to
put things right. When he told Sisi of his intentions, she burst into tears,
and before he left, she exacted a solemn promise that he take great care
of himself.
“For my sake and the children’s,” she said, “think of yourself too, and
not only of your work and the war.”
She returned despondently to Schönbrunn after taking leave of him
sadly at the station. On May 31, she appeared unexpectedly at the
Church of Our Lady at Maria-Lanzendorf, near Vienna, where there was
a famous image of the Virgin, and prayed that her husband’s life might
be spared.
Franz Josef did not forget his promise to write to her often, and his
letters demonstrated his deep devotion to her.
“My dearest angel Sisi,” he wrote on arriving in Verona on May 31,
1859. “I am profiting from the first moments after getting up to tell you
once again how much I love you, and how I long for you and the dear
children. Provided only that all is well with you, and you are looking
after yourself carefully, as you promised me. And do try to find as much
distraction as possible so as not to be depressed.”
But Sisi was very melancholy and shut herself away entirely, if only
to avoid seeing her mother-in-law. She went out riding from early
morning until late, and was too restless to settle down to any activity.
The Archduchess Sophie shook her head and the Empress’s entourage
talked themselves hoarse about her strange behavior, especially her old
enemy Dr. Seeburger. Once, on happening to meet the Minister of Police,
he poured out a flood of complaints and criticisms of the Empress.

61
 “She is unfit for her position both as Empress and as a wife,” he said,
“although she really has nothing to do. Her relationships with the
children are most perfunctory, and although she grieves and weeps over
the noble Emperor’s absence, she goes out riding for hours on end,
ruining her health. An icy gulf separates her from the Archduchess
Sophie, and the Mistress of the Household, the Countess Esterházy has
no influence over her.”
Sisi found her only consolation in writing long letters to her husband.
Those of May 29 and 30, in which she implored Franz Josef to let her
join him at his Headquarters in Verona, bear witness to her depressed
state of mind.
But the Emperor replied, “For the present, unfortunately, I cannot
comply with your wish, although I should love to beyond words. Women
are out of place in the disruptive life at Headquarters and I cannot give
my army a bad example. Besides which, even I do not in the least know
how long I shall be staying here … I beseech you, my angel, if you love
me, not to grieve so much but to take care of yourself. Try to find plenty
of distractions, go for rides and drives in moderation, and preserve your
dear, precious health, so that when I come back I may find you
thoroughly well and we may be as happy as can be.”

But things were going badly at the front. After the battle of Magenta,
which was lost entirely through bad generalship, Milan had to be
evacuated and the Austrian troops were compelled to retire within the
Quadrilateral.
The greatest disquiet was felt in the Monarchy and alarming reports
followed in rapid succession, coming to the ears of the Empress, who
could hardly control her grief and agitation. Once again she begged to be
allowed to join her husband at Headquarters, but this was naturally
impossible under the prevailing circumstances.
“My dear, dear only angel,” wrote Franz Josef, “I beg you, in the
name of your love for me, to collect yourself. Show yourself in the city
often and visit institutions. You do not know what a help you could be to
me if you would do this. It will raise the spirits of the people in Vienna
and maintain the good morale that I so urgently need … Do take care of
yourself for my sake as I have so many worries.”
In spite of the anxiety caused him by Sisi’s letters, he rejoiced beyond
measure when the mail arrived. Her letters were always brought to him

62
as soon as he woke, and he “simply devoured them while still in bed.”
Sisi’s thoughts turned toward Naples in the hope that it would come
out boldly on Austria’s side, but she forgot the powerful French fleet.
Her sister had hardly been married to the Crown Prince three months
when King Ferdinand II suddenly died on May 22 and Marie became
Queen, although this did not enable her to help Franz Josef in any way.
Meanwhile, Sisi continued to live her ordinary life at Laxenburg, but
she slept badly, ate scarcely anything, and spent all day on horseback.
She usually rode alone, but was sometimes accompanied by her groom,
Harry Holmes, as she liked him and he was an artist in his own right.
But the Archduchess Sophie did not consider this proper and
complained to the Emperor, so that in the midst of his worries about the
war he had to rack his brains to think what to do about it.
“I have thought over the question of your riding,” he wrote to Sisi,
"and I cannot allow you to ride alone with Holmes because it is not
proper.” Finally he proposed that she should be escorted by the
Controller of the Imperial Hunts.
The letters he wrote on campaign were full of assurances of his love.
“I cannot tell you often enough how much I love you and think about
you, my angel. I love you so vastly.”
“My dear, heavenly Sisi … my only beautiful angel …”
Such expressions as this recur at every other word. But Sisi still felt
that in the hour of danger her place was at her husband’s side.
To calm her nerves, she went out riding both in the morning and in
the afternoon, and now, to Franz Josef’s alarm, she began to practice
jumping regularly. Bad news would throw her into a panic. She felt no
confidence in her husband’s generals and was in terror of the Emperor
and the whole Headquarters staff being cut to pieces. Once she rode from
Laxenburg to Vöslau and back without stopping, a distance of nearly
twenty miles.
Franz Josef implored her not to take such long rides.
“Promise me this,” he wrote on the eve of Solferino without even
mentioning the impending battle, “as otherwise I shall find you too tired
and thin.”
Two days later came the sad news of the defeat.
“So I had to give orders to retreat,” wrote the Emperor to Sisi. “I rode
… to Valeggio through a violent storm and from there to Villafranca. I
spent a terrible evening there as it was a confused mass of wounded men,

63
fugitives, carriages and horses … Such is the sad story of a horrible day
on which great things were done, but fortune did not smile upon us. I am
the richer by many experiences and have learnt what it feels like to be a
defeated general … I shall stay here until the army has retired across the
Adige and the most necessary arrangements have been made for the
future. Then I shall hurry to Vienna where many duties call me. My only
ray of consolation and hope now is that I am coming to you, my angel.
You can imagine how happy it makes me … Your faithful Franz.” But
anxious lest his “heavenly, angelic Sisi” take things too much to heart, he
added, “Only you must not despair, but trust in God, as I do, for He will
surely rule over all things for the best. He is punishing us sorely and we
are only at the beginning of still worse trials, but one must bear them
with resignation and do one’s duty in all things.”
The Italian reverses had their effects in Hungary too, where the
revolutionary elements scented their approaching deliverance and began
to hope that their long-standing aspirations might now be gratified. Sisi
had set up a hospital for the wounded at Laxenburg and spent most of her
days there. She too heard these rumors and saw the approaching collapse
of the policy for which she held her mother-in-law responsible, more so,
perhaps, than she really was. The last bulwarks of her respect for the
Archduchess, based upon her sense of a political superiority, now
evaporated. Her feeling that the Archduchess Sophie and her creatures,
with whom she had surrounded the Emperor, were unable to rise to meet
the severity of the crisis, but were endangering the very state and
dynasty, was now confirmed. She realized that complaints and
lamentations were useless, and that, all other political advisors having
come to grief, it was her duty to come forward with advice of her own.
Anxious about the attitude of Hungary, she advised her husband to
open negotiations with Napoléon III as soon as possible in the hope of
ending the war. But then she would remember that she was a wife and
mother.
“Have you forgotten me among all these events?” she wrote. “Do you
love me still? If you do not, then whatever else might happen I would not
care.”
“But, my poor, dearly loved Sisi,” replied the Emperor, “you simply
cannot imagine how I long for you, and I surely need not tell you again
how immensely I love you. You do know it, in spite of the doubts you
express in your letters. I am mad with joy at the thought of the glorious

64
moment that will unite me with you once more, my angel … I entreat
you to be calm and not to give way to vain terrors. It is splendid that you
have set up a hospital at Laxenburg and I thank you with all my heart …
Only be strong and endure, and better times will come again one day.”
Meanwhile, it had been suggested to the Emperor that at such a
moment he ought not to leave the troops.
“My dear, dear angel,” he wrote, "you must not think that I have lost
my courage and am losing my grip. On the contrary, I have confidence
and am endeavoring as far as I can to inspire others with it … I only
meant to come to Vienna because I thought that at present I might be
more necessary there than here, but since that is not so, I am staying here
with my good troops until the middle of July. Do not grieve … Your
political plan contains some very good ideas, but for the present we must
not give up hope that Prussia and Germany will help us after all, and
until then there must be no thought of negotiating with the enemy.”
This time Sisi was totally in despair that her husband still could not
return home. She imagined him in a thousand dangers and thought the
situation to be even worse than he had told her. She was afraid he might
be killed in battle, or make himself seriously ill through overexertion or
exposure to rain and storms, or be taken prisoner, or be killed in a
railway outrage. She completely lost her nerve and the Emperor had
constantly to reassure her.
But she could not rest. She rode from morning until night, sat up late
into the night writing long letters to Franz Josef, her parents and her
family, and took a gloomy view of the future. She also worried about
whether her husband loved her and was hurt when he said he had to
return to Vienna on business, and would have liked him to write that it
was an irresistible longing to see her that drew him homeward.
Meanwhile, the Emperor had received fresh complaints from his
mother about Sisi’s doings. He was on the eve of opening negotiations
with Napoléon III, in which Prince Alexander of Hesse was acting as
intermediary, and the news from home robbed him of the peace of mind
that he so badly needed.
“My dearest angel Sisi,” he wrote, “… I simply cannot tell you how I
long for you and how anxious I am for you. Your present alarming mode
of life makes me quite desperate because it is bound to ruin your dear
health. I implore you to ease up at once and try to sleep at night, which
Nature intended, after all, for sleeping, and not for reading and writing.

65
And do not ride too much or too hard either. It hurt me very much that
you did not like my saying I must return to Vienna on account of
business. You can well imagine that the one incentive I have for
returning and the only pleasure it will offer me is that I shall be able to
hold you in my arms once more. But in times like these, one ought not to
let oneself be led by the feelings of one’s heart, however strong they may
be, so much as by one’s sense of duty. I have never heard of any meeting
with the Prince of Prussia, such as you mention, but I am afraid another
interview may be awaiting me, namely with that arch-rogue Napoléon. I
would not like it in the least, but if it can be of any service to the
Monarchy, even that will have to be swallowed. At present Napoléon
seems to be possessed by a prodigious passion for an armistice and for
peace.”
By now events were moving rapidly. Anxious in case his own country
should fall easy prey to the Prussian army while he lingered in Italy,
Napoléon had as much interest in making peace as Austria. This led to
the meeting at Villafranca on July 11, 1859, followed shortly afterwards
by the signing of an armistice. At last Franz Josef could return home,
clasp his wife in his arms, and set his domestic affairs to rights.
He found her in an acutely overwrought state, and although the
children were well and happy, the relationship between his wife and his
mother had become even more embittered. The Archduchess insisted
upon having the main say in training the Crown Prince for his future
duties. His nurse was in a most difficult position, receiving contradictory
orders from the child’s mother and grandmother, which was particularly
awkward when the Emperor, who was the ultimate court of appeal, was
some distance away. He was forced to maneuver constantly between his
wife and his mother, which was difficult because both had justifiable
points to make in their different ways.
But as a result of the war, the Emperor Franz Josef began to move
further away from the men and from the ideas with which his mother
sympathized and to draw closer to his wife’s more liberal views. Buol,
whose policy had been a hopeless failure, had already fallen, and Count
Rechberg had taken his place, but Bach and his centralizing system had
fallen too, and Franz Josef was drawing nearer to the idea of
constitutional government, although he had not yet entirely capitulated.
It was high time, because the overall situation was most discouraging.
Austria had lost prestige in the eyes of the whole world. The course that

66
had been followed after the revolution, of suspending the constitution,
had failed to achieve the desired results, and at the same time mistakes
had been made in foreign policy. There was also grave discontent in the
army owing to the blunders made by the higher command in the recent
campaign that had led to the catastrophe. The all-powerful Count
Grünne, who had appointed Gyulay, was held broadly responsible, so the
Emperor resolved to remove him from his post as Adjutant General and
make him Master of the Horse where he would have no say in military
policy. This amounted to a defeat for the Emperor’s mother, as Grünne
had been her principal favorite, and it was likely to be regarded by
Hungary as a friendly move on the Emperor’s part as Grünne’s attitude
toward that country’s aspirations was well known.
Sisi observed the changes with satisfaction. Every time any part of
the structure built up by her mother-in-law collapsed, it opened up the
way for her own influence and ideas. But she was yet to learn that the
Archduchess Sophie would not so easily allow herself to be beaten,
although her influence might be shaken for the moment.
By the beginning of 1860, the young Empress was living in a state of
incessant agitation. Three confinements in the space of four years, the
vicissitudes of the war, and her constant feud with the Archduchess and
her clique had undermined her health. And now another thing happened
that she felt most acutely because of her very strong feelings for her
family.

The idea of a uniting Italy had taken great strides since the campaign of
1859, and her brother-in-law’s position had suffered accordingly. The
King and Queen of the Two Sicilies were not experiencing a moment’s
peace. Sporadic risings had broken out, and in May Garibaldi started out
on his famous Expedition of the Thousand, which at a single blow
severed Sicily from the Kingdom of Naples. And when Palermo fell on
June 6, 1860, he showed the entire world that the Bourbon régime had
feet of clay.
Appeal after appeal for help went out from Naples to the courts of
Europe, and naturally to that in Vienna among them. Sisi implored her
husband to intervene, but since his unsuccessful campaign, the situation
was such that no assistance could possibly be given.
On June 13, Dukes Ludwig and Karl in Bayern arrived secretly at
Laxenburg on a visit to the Empress and discussed every possible, and

67
only remotely possible, plan for helping their sister, but all in vain. The
Dukes were also able to observe the state of Sisi’s nerves and general
health, and to see to what a pitch the antipathy between her and her
mother-in-law had grown. It was a very long time since she had spent
much time with her family in Bavaria and she now promised to pay them
a visit in July.
At Possenhofen, too, everybody was very upset about the fate of the
Queen of the Two Sicilies. They heard that the King reigned but did not
govern, and was quite unfit to cope with the emergency. Garibaldi was
already thinking of crossing over to the mainland from Sicily. The
Austrian Ambassador reported that the King of the Two Sicilies had
hardly anybody left upon whom he could really depend. Yet the Queen
was in favor of his defending his crown by force at all costs.
Then, on August 21, Garibaldi landed in the south of the peninsula,
and everywhere both the army and the people went over to him. King
Francesco looked on apathetically, but his twenty-year-old Queen was
admirable in her energy and courage. She was said to have told her
husband that if he did not place himself at the head of the troops that still
remained loyal to him, she would do so herself.
Meanwhile, the magic name of Garibaldi was doing its work and all
that remained for the King to do was to retire into the fortress of Gaeta.
For his own part, he would have preferred to have given up on the whole
thing. He only put up a defense in order to secure a retreat and because
he was shamed by the behavior of his wife whose courage rose as the
danger increased, a characteristic in which she resembled her sister the
Empress. Sisi felt the deepest sympathy with her sister’s fate, and the
awareness that she herself had to sit matters out with hands folded
increased her irritability.
Meanwhile, as the wounds of the year 1859 began to heal, the
Archduchess Sophie gradually regained her influence in Vienna. The
October Diploma, which still embodied the idea of a unitary Empire
while granting a central parliament, was not irreconcilable. Franz Josef
himself confirmed this when he wrote to her on October 21, 1860.
“We are going to have a little parliamentary life, it is true, but the
power remains in my hands.”
This being the case in the political sphere, it was unlikely that his
mother would loosen her control in domestic matters. The clashes
between her and Sisi became more and more frequent, until toward the

68
end of October, 1860, they were occurring almost daily. Sisi reproached
her husband bitterly for not siding with her on everything, but at times
she seemed to be too nervous and erratic, and he felt that such an
important matter as the education of the Crown Prince was better left in
the hands of his mother who had trained him for the throne so
assiduously.
Thus Franz Josef was torn between his mother, to whom he owed
everything, and his wife, whom he loved beyond words, and moreover,
as was only natural, he was also exposed to the many temptations of
other beautiful women. The fact that he rather enjoyed these was felt as a
slight by his young wife, conscious of her own dazzling beauty, and she
completely lost all self-control.
The interminable war had eroded her patience, everything seemed
unbearable, and she believed she was being hounded by enemies on all
sides. In her consternation, she displayed alarming symptoms, which at
first seemed inexplicable, and which brought her to the point where her
frazzled nerves destroyed the balance of her mind, and she resolved to
put an end to the whole situation.
She went to her husband and told him that she felt ill and wanted to
go to a southern climate in order to escape the winter. Franz Josef
proposed Meran, Arco, or some sunny place on the Adriatic, but the
Empress shook her head and replied: “No, no, I must go far, far away,
right out of the country.”
She intended to go abroad in order to show people that she really
meant to break away, and she settled on Madeira as being sufficiently
remote. There, on an island far away in the ocean, where eternal spring
reigned, she might recapture her physical and mental equilibrium.
In her despair, Sisi forgot her duty as a wife and mother, and of the
Empress and first lady in a great Empire. And she completely ignored
the tumultuous impact that her sudden departure for such a distant land
was sure to make, having all the appearance of a flight.
The Emperor was shocked. He had anxiously watched the change in
his wife during the last few months and had been so depressed that
Count Rechberg had noticed it and wondered what could be happening.
Franz Josef had always been chivalrous toward women, and the
antipathy between his wife and mother was unbearable. And now he was
truly dejected because the Empress was seriously ill.

69
 Doctors were called in and examined her thoroughly, but no definitive
symptoms were found except for the sore throats from which the
Empress often suffered, but these were not sufficient to justify a voyage
to Madeira. For that, they would have to be described as an incipient
infection of the lungs or perhaps tuberculosis of the throat.
It so happened that there was no Austrian ship available at present,
but Sisi refused to wait and demanded to start out at once, so a request
was sent to Queen Victoria, who placed her yacht at the Empress’s
disposal for the voyage from Antwerp to Madeira, and invited her to pay
her a visit.
Sisi, looking pale and wasted, thanked the British Ambassador for the
yacht, insisting that she wished to travel completely incognito and would
not be visiting the Queen.
So, in the event, the Countess Esterházy was left behind with the
children, and on November 17, Franz Josef escorted his wife through
Munich to Bamberg, after which she went on alone to Antwerp, where
the Queen’s yacht was waiting for her.
The news of the Empress’s sudden illness and departure made the
deepest impression on the public which was entirely taken by surprise,
especially as it was rumored that her illness was really serious.
Suggested remedies at once began to pour in from every corner of the
land. One man asked permission to send several bottles of water from a
“miraculous spring.” A Berlin brewer named Hoff did not even ask
permission, but at once dispatched a large case of malt extract “in order
that she might be better nourished.” Even the Archduchess was quite
affected by this sudden decision. She naturally judged her strange
daughter-in-law’s apparent flight severely, but for the rest, Sisi’s decision
was to play into her hands as Sisi was leaving her an open field to exert
her influence over the Emperor and bring up the children according to
her own ideas, thus regaining all the ground she had recently lost.
The outside world received the news of the Empress’s grave illness
seriously. All the crowned heads vied with one another in offering their
services. Count Carvajal, whose birth and wealth made him a sort of
King in Madeira, offered her his own villa. He did not know that the
Empress dreaded being involved in lots of social and other duties, which
she always loathed, and especially now. She had rented a small villa
buried in flowers. Money was no object as the Emperor had provided her
with unlimited credit.

70
 The yacht Osborne had a very stormy voyage from Antwerp to
Madeira, and it was now seen that, ill though she was, the Empress bore
the unusually rough passage better than any of the other passengers.
Nobody appeared at mealtimes, but Sisi was not in the least
inconvenienced by the waves.
Soon the yacht neared the island. As they passed the lofty black basalt
cliffs of Cabo Girão, suddenly Funchal, the capital, lay before them,
rising in terraces on the slopes of a high, cloud-capped mountain. High
above it, the towers of the church of Nostra Senhora do Monte, a place of
pilgrimage, peeped out from the pine and chestnut woods. The whole
population had crowded into the town to enjoy such a great event as the
arrival of the lovely young Empress who had so suddenly fallen ill.
Many expected to see a pale, wasted figure, or thought she would have to
be carried ashore, but nothing of the sort happened. Sisi disembarked
with a very serious expression on her face, it is true, but to all
appearances she was fresh and well and resuscitated by her sea voyage.
On the Molo, a Portuguese grandee stood waiting for her with a letter
of welcome from Dom Pedro. He thought the Empress looked very well
and could not help wondering a little, as the only evident symptom of her
illness was an occasional and very slight cough.
He at once conducted her to her villa.
Sisi was enraptured. High on top of a sheer cliff was a marvelous
tropical garden in which stood a house with a fine veranda supported on
columns, climbed luxuriantly by glorious creepers with purple and
yellow bells. From the great windows there was a view out to sea, and an
intoxicating fragrance wafted in from the garden. On the very edge of the
cliff stood a summer house buried in flowers that overlooked a sheer
drop down to the sea some hundred feet or so below. The picturesque
view was framed in a setting of laurels and palms.
During the first few days Sisi was simply enchanted by the grandeur
of the scenery. For a time she forgot her cares and illness, and her
melancholic moods did not return until the monotony of her everyday
existence once more took hold of her and she became bored with her
surroundings.
She now began to feel homesick for her husband and children. On
Christmas Eve in particular, which was her birthday, her suite tried to
make her feel truly at home, but her thoughts lingered with her family. In
reply to the New Year’s wishes that reached her, she wrote sadly, “May it

71
be a better one for us all than the last. I am often dreadfully agitated at
present.”
Sisi was thinking of her mother and of her sister who was having so
much trouble in Gaeta. It was a long time since she had received any
news from her and she waited expectantly for the Emperor’s messengers,
Uxküll, Latour and Louis Rechberg, who went back and forth with
letters, and whose duty it was to report back to the Emperor how Sisi
was. Their impressions varied. Her mental condition made her physical
state seem even worse than it really was.
“I am terribly sorry for the poor Empress,” wrote Count Rechberg to
his aunt, “for quite between ourselves, I think she is very, very ill. Her
cough seems in no way better than before her voyage here, although as a
rule she does not cough much … But mentally she is terribly depressed,
almost to the point of melancholia, although in her condition this could
hardly be otherwise. She often shuts herself up in her room all day
crying. I cannot imagine what the reason can be, but she has not received
a single letter from the Queen in Naples since arriving here. She hoped I
would bring her one and cried the whole day after my arrival when she
saw that she was to be disappointed. She eats alarmingly little and we,
too, have to suffer for this, as the whole meal, comprising four courses,
four sweets, coffee, etc., does not last more than twenty-five minutes.
She is so depressed that she never goes out, but simply sits at the open
window, except for an hour’s ride at walking speed.”
Sisi spent most of her time with the eight ponies that had been bought
or hired for her, passing the time as best she could with what had
delighted her in early childhood. Here she could give way to her love of
animals and flowers, and indulge her childlike side, which was one of the
secrets of her inexhaustible charm, together with the fascinating archness
of a nature that was essentially cheerful. To all who were nice to her, and
paid her what she called “little attentions” over and above what was due,
she always wanted to give some pleasure in return.
The following letter to her brother-in-law is typical of many.
“Dear Ludwig,” she wrote, “didn’t I send you a dried seahorse in my
last letter? Please be very kind and have a really nice, exact copy of it
made for me in gold, of the same size … I want it for Mittrowsky, who
dried it for me and is always bringing me all sorts of sea creatures, of
which I am very fond. A little time ago I sent for a big dog from

72
England. You see, I am increasing my menagerie, although I am afraid
all my little birds will not survive the voyage …”
In all her letters home, Sisi complained that she was getting no news
from her sisters, not even from those in Bavaria. Marie in Naples could
not write, of course, as she was beleaguered in Gaeta where she was
demonstrating the greatest fortitude. The diplomatic corps had retired to
Rome and it had been proposed to the Queen that she should accompany
them, but she had refused. She showed great powers of endurance and
was an inspiration to the garrison, and when the general in command of
the besieging forces offered to have a distinguishing sign placed on
Queen’s palace and the hospitals so that they should be spared during the
bombardment, she persuaded her husband to accept the offer on behalf of
the hospitals, but to decline it for her palace.
After five months, abandoned and betrayed by all, the Monarch had
to capitulate on February 13, 1861. The King and Queen withdrew to
Rome and took refuge in the Palazzo Farnese under the protection of the
Pope, just as in 1848 Pius the Ninth had sought protection in the
Kingdom of Naples. Their marriage had not turned out very well from
the first and now they had to live a life of inaction as exiles.

When Sisi heard the news, she was horrified by her sister’s loss of her
throne, but was at least relieved of the torments of uncertainty. For the
rest, the Empress had benefited in both body and mind from her stay in
Madeira, that constantly blooming garden with its splendid air, its beauty
and peace, where camellia trees thirty feet tall were covered with bloom
in February.
The couriers and other visitors found her looking much better as time
went on. Her cough had almost disappeared and she was in better spirits.
She often listened to the tunes played on her favorite mechanical musical
instrument that had been given to her as a Christmas present.
She was already beginning to talk of going home and looked forward
to seeing her husband and children as their separation had been most
painful for her. But she dreaded the meeting with the Archduchess
Sophie to whom she had not written even when the Archduchess sent her
a beautiful statuette of St. George as a friendly overture. She merely
asked the Archduke Ludwig Viktor to thank his mother for it.
“I kiss her hands,” she wrote, “but I do not write to her simply
because I feel that my letters must bore her. I have written so often to

73
you and there is not much to say about this place.”
Her mother-in-law would have been prepared for a reconciliation, but
Sisi no longer wanted one.
On April 28, she started on the homeward journey after distributing
presents, money and medals that had been awarded, and all of Funchal
regretted her departure. She sailed for Spain on the comfortable English
royal yacht in glorious weather. She had asked that there should be no
official reception at Cadiz and wandered unrecognized through the
beautiful town.
On the next day, May 1, she took an ordinary train to Seville, but
although she had begged that she might be allowed to travel incognito,
the Duc de Montpensier, brother-in-law of the Queen of Spain and a
great lover of pomp and ceremony, could not bear to lose such an
opportunity for cutting an important figure in public, and came to meet
her at the station, covered with medals, afterwards conducting her to his
state coach with its six horses that was waiting in readiness, and offering
her his palace at Sant' Elmo.
The whole thing truly annoyed Sisi. She wanted to see Seville in
peace and not take part in any ceremonies, so she declined the offer of
his palace and confined her relationship with the Duke to the minimum
required by politeness.
The King and Queen also invited her to Aranjuez, but there was no
question of her accepting their invitation. She had had enough of the
Queen’s brother-in-law and his self-importance already, and preferred to
go to see a bull fight in Seville on May 5.
The Spanish people were most curious to see the beautiful Empress of
whose illness the whole world had heard, and since they were themselves
fond of ceremonies, etiquette and pomp, they could not understand why
the Empress should be so anxious not to receive all the tokens of respect
due to her rank, especially as she seemed to be perfectly well. Everybody
was enchanted by her beauty and her dazzling appearance. The Austrian
Ambassador in Madrid, who had gone to meet her in Cadiz, reported to
Vienna, “Her Majesty pleased everybody extraordinarily. Her gracious
dignity and elegant simplicity could not fail to produce a great effect and
impress people here, where stilted emotionalism alternates with the most
unseemly informality.”
She continued her voyage, passing Gibraltar and the Balearic Islands
on the way to Corfu, every place vying with the next to make her visits

74
as pleasant as possible, although it never occurred to them that they
would have succeeded far better if they had simply paid no attention to
her at all.
Spoiled though she had been by all the glorious landscapes she had
seen in Madeira and on the way back, Sisi was in ecstasies when, on
May 15, 1861, after a brief visit to Malta, the Victoria and Albert entered
the bay of Gasturi in Corfu. The green rolling hills on all sides were
covered with orange trees in bloom, cypresses and laurels, while a sea of
an incomparable blue encircled with a belt of foam its craggy shores
simply smothered with golden broom. Mighty fortifications towered
above them, dating from the days of Venetian domination, and to the
east, on the mainland, lay the snow-covered mountains of Albania.
Corfu is one of the Ionian Islands, which were then under British rule.
Sisi would gladly have stayed there longer and explored the enchanted
island in all directions, but the Emperor had traveled to Trieste and was
on his way to meet her on board the yacht Phantasie. With tears in his
eyes, Franz Josef welcomed his wife after their long separation, and after
a visit to Miramar, they returned to Vienna.
Everybody found the Empress to be fresh and blooming, but she had
hardly arrived when she had to bow to the demands of Court ceremonial
and hold Courts at which, for hours on end, she received the women who
were eligible for presentation.
It was a great joy for her to see her children again after being
separated from them for so long, but she could not help noticing that they
had fallen entirely under the influence of the Archduchess Sophie, and
when she raised objections, she was told in no uncertain terms that she
had been away for so long somebody had had to take care of the
children, so the system of education introduced during her absence must
continue to be followed.
She did not enjoy a single day’s peace. The old antipathies flared up
again and she was more than ever conscious of the coldness and scarcely
veiled hostility of the Court, which was entirely on the side of the
Emperor’s mother. Then Sisi announced that she no longer intended stay
in the Burg, where the Archduchess Sophie was the mistress, and as
early as May 23 Their Majesties moved to Laxenburg.
Sisi soon let it be known that she wished to live a very quiet and
retiring life, as the Courts she had held, her journey, and the change of

75
climate had affected her health and she needed to take the greatest care
of herself.
The Prussian Ambassador already reported that there was some talk
of her again spending the next winter in the south. The state dinners and
Courts announced for the next few days were suddenly cancelled.
On June 18 it was rumored that the Empress’s condition was again
causing the greatest concern as she was coughing badly, had no appetite,
and was very weak. And sure enough, the doctors once more advised her
immediate departure. She had scarcely been home four weeks and now
she had to go south again.
The wildest rumors circulated around Vienna. Something was
obviously very wrong. The Empress had appeared looking blooming and
as fresh as a daisy, yet on the very next day it was heard that, in the
opinion of her doctors, nothing but an immediate departure would avert
the gravest consequences.
The Empress also canceled her proposed visit to Munich for the
marriage of her sister Mathilde to Count Ludwig of Trani, the eldest
brother of King Francesco II of the Two Sicilies, which was to take place
on June 5. The Bavarian Ambassador even reported that there was little
hope for her recovery and referred to a fatal illness. He alleged that Dr.
Skoda, who was treating her, was incompetent and had told him that if
the Empress stayed in Vienna, she would have barely six weeks more
weeks to live. Her departure was fixed for the twenty-third and her old
family doctor from Munich was consulted and examined her.
The British Ambassador did not know what to make of it all. “The
Empress,” he wrote, “must be very ill indeed and she is aware of her
dangerous condition. She is forbidden to speak so as to avoid any
unnecessary irritation of the throat, and since His Majesty often has
business in Vienna, Her Majesty spends her days almost alone.”
Count Rechberg told the Ambassador that the Empress was returning
to Corfu. “I have never heard that spot recommended by the doctors
before,” replied Lord Bloomfield, “as a summer resort for invalids of
that sort, as there is malaria there too.”
“Nor have I,” said Rechberg, “and that is why I cannot understand
why Meran was not chosen, or some suitable place in the Empire.”
It was hard to know what was really going on and whether it was
simply a case of illness or whether the domestic dissensions in the
Imperial family had caused the Empress’s health to give way again. But

76
all of Vienna was undeniably depressed and the Emperor seemed in the
deepest distress.
On June 23, Franz Josef escorted Sisi back to Trieste. From there she
traveled on to Corfu accompanied by the Archduke Max, arriving on
June 27. Even on the voyage she started to feel much better. Her fever
abated and she had no need to consult her physician, Dr. Skoda, who was
attending to her. The Lord High Commissioner placed his palace and
country house at her disposal, and she chose the latter as there she would
find it easier to live in the complete seclusion she was seeking. She asked
to be spared all formal visits.
Dr. Skoda returned home early in July and reported that the most
alarming symptoms had greatly subsided, and that Her Majesty was
coughing less and was free from fever.
Sisi took long walks in the magnificent laurel woods and went sailing
far out to sea. She also swam, which was rather curious in someone
supposed to be suffering from a lung complaint.
“My life here is even quieter than in Madeira,” she wrote to the
Archduke Ludwig Viktor. “What I like best is to sit by the shore on the
great rocks. The dogs lie down in the water and I look out at the lovely
moonlight on the sea.”
Her peace was disturbed by a visit from Count Grünne who had been
somewhat tactlessly sent to Corfu to report upon her health. She gave
him a cold and almost hostile reception, regarding him as nothing more
than a spy on behalf of her mother-in-law. Grünne was fully aware of
this and the accounts he gave of his visit in Vienna were not very
favorable to the Empress. These were repeated back to Sisi and now her
old disliking for the General as one of the Archduchess Sophie’s most
trusted adherents rose to such a pitch that, if she had been capable of
hatred, she would certainly have hated him.

Meanwhile, Sisi’s Bavarian relatives had been greatly alarmed by all that
was going on and the Duchess Ludovika was puzzled. Like everybody
else, she received the most conflicting accounts of her daughter’s health,
so she resolved to send the Count and Countess of Thurn und Taxis to
Vienna to find out what was really happening. In the event, Count Max
of Thurn und Taxis stayed with the Emperor and joined him in his
hunting parties, while Helene went on to Corfu, where she arrived on
August 23 to Sisi’s great delight.

77
 This was the first occasion on which the sisters had spent any length
of time together since their marriages. The shadow that had once lain
between them had long since disappeared, especially when Helene saw
that, after all, her sister’s lot was not a happy one. She found her sister
pale, with a slight puffiness about the face, and was shocked to see that
she ate scarcely anything.
Finally, she succeeded in persuading her to eat meat several times a
day, and she joined her in expeditions by land and by sea, during which
the Empress had an opportunity to pour out her heart to her sister and to
complain about all the incidents that had brought about her illness and
led to her second flight from home.
Helene offered her services as a mediator, and on returning to Vienna
at the end of September, reported everything to the Emperor.

Sisi’s departure to live in such a distant spot for the second time had been
most unpleasant for the Emperor. He naturally knew that everybody was
attributing these strange happenings to causes that were exceptionally
painful for him to entertain, even if they were not true. Quite apart from
his love for his wife, and his desire to live in peace with her and their
children, and to come back to a pleasant home after his laborious day’s
work, he had to think of his own prestige and that of his House, which
were bound to suffer so long as people could indulge in speculations
about the reasons for the Empress’s actions. The transition from her
dangerous state of health in Vienna to her astonishingly rapid recovery in
Madeira and Corfu had been too abrupt.
But now Helene had paved the way toward improved relations.
“I should like to spend the early days of October,” wrote Franz Josef
to his mother, “in paying a quick visit of a few days to my dear Sisi in
Corfu. I feel the greatest longing to be there after such a long
separation.”
Early on the morning of October 13, the Emperor arrived in Corfu to
find his wife in far better health. He explained all his troubles, begged
her to be reasonable, and promised to support her more explicitly than he
had done before in the matter of the children, and, if necessary, to oppose
his mother.
Sisi longed to see her little ones and wrote constantly to Gisela and
Rudolf, her letters always ending with some such expressions as, “Do
not forget your Mamma,” or, “Think of your Mamma often.”

78
 The Emperor and Empress now reached a compromise. She would
not return to Vienna again, as her nerves and health did not permit it, but
she would return to live within the borders of the Austrian Empire. So it
was agreed that Sisi would go straight to Venice, where the children
would soon travel to join her, and without the Archduchess Sophie.
The Emperor really liked Corfu, although what interested him most
were the military preparations carried out by the English, and he returned
home with his mind at rest, hoping that now everything would be in
order and that he would be able to visit Venice much more often than
distant Corfu. Besides which, he might gain a certain political advantage
from the Empress’s visit to Venice as the idea was spreading that since
Austria’s loss of Lombardy, Vienna was now intending to dispose of
Venice too in an exchange or a sale.
On October 26, the steam frigate Lucia, with Sisi on board, arrived in
Venice, where she was met by three of the Archdukes, among them
Johann Salvator and the young Ludwig Salvator, who, though only
twenty-three years old, was greatly interested in art and science, and was
therefore known as the “learned” Archduke.
In the evening, the Piazza di San Marco was illuminated by order of
the Sindaco, but the people pointedly avoided it and took no part in any
joyous demonstrations. But the Empress only wanted peace and quiet,
and led the same retired life in Venice as she had done in Madeira and
Corfu, passing her time as best she could in reading. She was, however,
unable to go for walks, as although she did not look ill, her feet were
very swollen and her features still showed the same puffiness.
Her joy knew no bounds when on November 3, 1861, Rudolf and
Gisela arrived in Venice. But disagreements immediately broke out with
the Countess Esterházy who had received instructions from the
Archduchess Sophie as to how the children should be treated during their
visit, instructions with which Sisi disagreed.
At the end of the month Franz Josef arrived too, and, like his wife,
could not help noticing how coldly they were received, realizing that the
people had only contempt for Austrian rule and were only quiet because
they were kept in order by the troops. When Franz Josef expressed his
surprise to the Governor at the way in which the Venetian nobility
avoided him and his wife, attempts were made to induce some of them to
put in an appearance at the palace, but in vain.

79
 Sisi began to feel ill-at-ease in Venice. Her health had not improved,
and her constant disagreements with the Mistress of the Household,
whose friendship she had failed to win, rankled her until at last she
succeeded in persuading the Emperor to remove the Countess Esterházy
from her position and replace her with Sisi’s former lady-in-waiting,
Paula Bellegarde, who had meanwhile married Count Königsegg-
Aulendorf, who was instantly appointed to be Controller of the
Empress’s Household.
The Archduchess Sophie naturally felt this move was aimed at her.
In March, the Emperor paid another visit to Venice where Sisi had
now discovered another pastime to distract her.
“I am getting together an album of beautiful women,” she wrote to
her brother-in-law, “and am now collecting photographs for it – of
women only. Please send me any pretty faces that you can hunt down in
Angerer's or any other photographer’s.”
Later, a request was sent to the Minister for Foreign Affairs to ask all
Austrian Ministers and Ambassadors abroad to look out for portraits of
beautiful women and send them to the Empress. Rechberg passed on
these instructions to the Ambassador in Constantinople, adding that, in
addition to portraits of Oriental beauties, the Empress desired some of
beautiful women in Turkish harems. This was most embarrassing, as in
terms of the manners and customs of the country, it would have been
more than his life was worth to ask for such photographs. As he said,
nobody would believe that he really wanted them for his Empress. He
did, however, succeed in obtaining a few, but he thought, with a smile,
that the Empress no doubt wished to compare them with her own portrait
and see how much more beautiful she was herself.
In the second week of April, the Duchess in Bayern arrived in Venice
to see with her own eyes what was really the matter with her daughter’s
health, as she had long since heard that there was nothing wrong with her
lungs. In May, the Emperor again arrived on a visit, after which Sisi
returned home with the Duchess, staying at Reichenau so as to avoid
Vienna and the Emperor’s mother. There she was joined by Dr. Fischer,
who had known her since her childhood and had always considered that
her illness had been wrongly diagnosed, expressing the opinion that Sisi
was suffering from acute anemia. Since there was nothing wrong with
her lungs, it was no longer of any benefit to her to remain in the south
and taking the waters in Kissingen was far more advisable.

80
 The Empress, whose beauty had been affected by the swelling of her
features, had greater confidence in Dr. Fischer, so it was decided that, on
leaving Reichenau, she should go on to Kissingen at once for the cure.
Sisi was always inclined to take any illness more seriously than was
really necessary, and this made things difficult for the doctors who
always found, on examining her, that her constitution was on the whole
excellent, hardy and vigorous, so that it could only be a question of time
and nerves before the lovely young Empress, who was only twenty-five,
was entirely restored to health and free from all fear of possible
complications. And, as a matter of fact, her visit to Kissingen, where she
lived in seclusion in a small villa, did her good.
In July, she paid a visit to Possenhofen, where she was deeply
touched to see the Queen of the Two Sicilies and the newly-married
Count and Countess of Trani after all their sad experiences. But the
accounts she heard of the state of the Queen of the Two Sicilies’s
marriage were not very satisfactory as she had separated from her
husband and seemed unwilling ever to return to him.
On August 14, Sisi returned quite suddenly and unexpectedly to
Vienna, her lady-in-waiting the Princess Helene Taxis having to be
summoned by telegram.
“Now we have her back in this country,” she wrote to a former lady-
in-waiting, “just as we had two years ago. Yet how many things lie
between these two occasions – Madeira, Corfu and a world of troubles
… She was received with an enthusiasm such as I had never heard before
in Vienna. On Sunday there is to be a choir festival and a torchlight
procession at which fourteen thousand people have expressed their
intention of being present. His expression as he helped her out of the
carriage I shall never forget. I find her looking blooming, but her
expression is not natural. It is as forced and as nervous as can be. Her
color is so high that she looks over-heated, and although her face is no
longer swollen, it is much thickened and changed. The fact that Prince
Karl Theodor accompanied her proves how much she dreads being alone
with him and all of us.”
The reception given to the Empress in Vienna was incredible, the joy
and enthusiasm at her return reaching such a pitch that in Court circles it
was regarded as some sort demonstration in favor of the liberal Empress
as opposed to the Emperor’s reactionary mother. And now Sisi settled
down, first at Schönbrunn, and resumed her old accustomed life. She

81
enjoyed having the children with her, especially the little Crown Prince,
who, as the Princess Taxis wrote about at this time, “has become
charming, jolly, natural, clever and very good-looking.”
Sisi’s feet were now less swollen and allowed her to go for long
walks both in the morning and in the afternoon. Gradually, too, she
started riding again. She greeted her favorite horses in the stables
enthusiastically. For the moment, the Archduchess Sophie was away, so
there was no need to fear any clash between them. Yet at first Sisi felt so
ill-at-ease in the atmosphere of the Court of Vienna that she asked her
sister the Queen of the Two Sicilies to join her when her brother Karl
Theodor had to leave. But the Queen was not the most desirable
companion for her as she only upset her with her complaints about her
unhappy marriage.
Oblivious to the demands of etiquette, Sisi lived according to her own
sweet will. Her ladies-in-waiting noticed this; indeed, they found it hard
to accept things calmly and observed her every movement.
“She does not seem at all anxious to let us attend on her now,” wrote
the Princess Helene Taxis from Schönbrunn on September 15, 1862.
“She walks and drives out a great deal with His Majesty, but when he is
not here, she stays alone here in the part of the garden at Reichenau that
is closed to the public. However, God be praised, she is at any rate at
home, and inclined to remain here, that is the main thing. She is very
nice to him – in front of us, at least – talkative and natural, although in
private there may be many differences of opinion. That is often plainly to
be seen. She looks splendidly well, quite a different woman, with a good
color, strong and brown. She eats properly, sleeps well, does not tight-
lace any more, and can walk for hours, but when she stands, there is a
vein in her left foot that throbs. The Queen of the Two Sicilies does not
look well. That household seems to be going badly.”
It was now hoped that the Empress would recover her health entirely,
and her household in particular longed to see her leading an ordered and
regular life again. The varying moods to which Sisi had subjected them
during the last few years – her despair at her ill-health and her shrinking
sympathy – had made their lives anything but easy.
The Countess Karoline Lamberg had married in 1860, just in time to
escape the arguments and travels of the next few years. “I can only
congratulate you,” wrote the Princess Helene Taxis to her, “upon not
having had to go through these two years of martyrdom with us. Now we

82
are settled in Schönbrunn, and the thought that we are settled for good
somewhere seems quite strange. It was hard for her to give up her recent
traveling about, and I quite understand this. When one has no inward
peace, one imagines that it makes life easier to move about, and she has
now grown too much accustomed to this. For the rest, Helene [Sisi's
sister] is coming here for a fortnight while the Emperor is away hunting
as he will not give that up ... She still exerts a calming influence as she is
so sensible and orderly herself, and tells her the truth. The Empress went
out riding at Reichenau, and has done so here once at seven in the
morning, alone with Holmes. The walk has naturally become a gallop,
but she does not want to trot yet. She simply refuses to let herself be
accompanied by Grünne and Königsegg. The former has been entirely
ignored and avoided so far. Otherwise, thank God, things are going on
well ... I believe, indeed, that she has moments of despair, but nobody
can laugh like her, or has such childlike whims. She says herself that it is
not unpleasant to her to see us occasionally, but it is odious to her to have
us in waiting.”
The Emperor did everything he could to make life at home as
pleasant as possible for his wife. He was most attentive, sent for the most
beautiful horses for her, and anticipated her every wish. Provided only
that her health could be thoroughly restored during the next few years,
and the Archduchess Sophie would keep herself somewhat in the
background, all might yet go well.

83
Chapter 6

Domestic Strife and Fluctuating Moods (1863-1865)

Gradually, the Empress began to accustom herself to Court life once
more.
In the middle of February, for the first time for three years, she
appeared at a small Court ball to which only two-hundred-and-fifty
guests were invited. Everybody was surprised and pleased to see how
blooming she looked. Her features had lost their puffiness, her smile had
returned, and her charm was as great as ever. Yet there was no end to the
gossip that surrounded her, and when it was not about her it was about
her family.
Sisi remained deeply attached to her home and recent events had only
drawn the bonds closer. She took a special interest in everything
concerning her brothers and sisters.
The Queen of the Two Sicilies's marriage had never been happy and
now things had come to a crisis as she refused to live in Rome any
longer with her husband, and in October, 1862, suddenly retired to the
Ursuline convent in Augsburg without a word of warning, prepared to
stay there until further notice. Her relatives at once did all they could to
patch the marriage up again, at least outwardly.
The news of this flight was all the more upsetting for the Empress
because the courtiers in Vienna were already comparing it with her own
travels to Madeira and Corfu, and were only too willing to attribute the
strangest tendencies to the House of Duke Max in Bavaria. And being
very over-sensitive, she was inclined to suspect malice even where none
was intended.
An atmosphere of icy coldness gradually grew up around her at the
Court and she naturally gravitated toward the Hungarian nobility,
because, knowing her opposition to the old state of affairs, the adulation
they paid her was inter-woven with certain expectations. She was
flattered by the ingratiating references made both verbally and in writing
to the power that the charming Empress’s beauty and fascination was
known to exert over her husband, and the hopes that went along with
that, but she regretted her ignorance of the Magyar language.
The time when she seriously felt this to be inconvenient was when
she found it hard to make herself understood to the Crown Prince’s
nurse, and it was from her that she learned her first scraps of Magyar. In

84
February 1863, however, she began to study the language in earnest,
throwing herself into it with characteristic energy. The hours that had to
be spent in attending to her glorious golden hair – which was more than a
yard long and gradually darkening to a glorious golden-brown – she
devoted to learning lists of words.
She also spoke Magyar to her maid while dressing, before proceeding
to the physical exercises with dumb-bells and other apparatus that kept
her supple and in good condition, and would, she hoped, make her fit to
ride again, as that was her favorite form of exercise. She had portraits of
all her splendid horses painted by the artist Zellenberg and hung in one
of her sitting rooms, which she called her “riding chapel” and would
show to all lovers of these noble beasts.
Since, however, she was not yet entirely restored to health, the doctor
insisted that she must take the cure at Kissingen again this year. She was
always welcomed there like a fairy queen and would appear daily on the
promenade, where she demonstrated a special concern for those who
were seriously ill. She would walk almost daily with the blind Duke of
Mecklenburg, acting as his guide, and she also interested herself in a
disabled Englishman called John Collett, whose social position was by
no means exalted, and who was taken out regularly on the promenade in
his wheelchair. He was a very well-read man and, like everyone else,
was fascinated by the Empress’s beauty and charm, until before long the
unfortunate man was madly in love with her. At first he did not know
who she was and took her for a lovely English girl, but before long he
discovered her real identity. He would send her books and flowers, and
even poems of his own.
“There is one quite small thing,” said one of his letters to the
Empress, “that would give me real happiness, and that is a lock of your
hair. If I am wrong to ask you for such a thing, please forgive me. I
should value it not because you are an Empress, but because you really
exert a most wonderful power over me, and I value your friendship so
very highly for its own sake alone.”
John Collett was touched to find that an Empress, and what is more,
an enchantingly lovely woman, should take such an interest in a poor
cripple.
These three people became inseparable – the fascinating young
Empress, the blind Duke and the disabled man in the wheelchair – and

85
would talk about God and the universe, life and death, and happiness and
suffering.
John Collett wrote in a shaky and scarcely legible hand a touching
little poem calling down blessings on Sisi, beginning with the words:

May God preserve the lady fair and true

Whose pitying heart can feel for others’ pain.
For thou, at least, kind queen, hast not passed through
The trying fires of suffering in rain.

On July 25, the Empress started out on her homeward journey. She
had hardly left before John Collett tried with his almost failing hand to
write and thank her for the sunshine that she had brought into his life.
Sisi always answered his letters. She wrote that she had had his two
favorite poems set to music, and often had them sung to her in the
evenings when she returned from her ride. But his request for a lock of
her hair was refused on the ground that she had made a vow never to
give any of her hair to anybody.
“Thank you,” she wrote, “for the little poem. You ask me to criticize
it. I can only say one thing, which is that you value me too highly and I
do not feel myself half worthy of what you think and write about me …
You are in such pain and so weary, and yet you do not forget to pray for
me, and that is so kind of you. Please do not cease to do so, and pray
God that he will grant a wish of mine – my one and only wish, for which
I pray morning and night and every day during Mass,” by which she
probably meant her hope of a complete recovery.
While Sisi was living this life of her own, Franz Josef was at the
Conference of Princes in Frankfurt, at which, according to Bismarck’s
policy, Prussia was not represented, so that the antagonism toward
Prussia continued that was ultimately to lead to the fratricidal war
forming the Germany Empire.
Sisi now threw herself enthusiastically into studying the Magyar
language and Franz Josef reported to his mother that she was making
incredibly rapid progress. But the Archduchess watched her daughter-in-
law’s growing sympathy for Hungary with a level of distaste she made
no effort to conceal.
On one occasion the Emperor and Empress appeared in the central
compartment of the Imperial box at the theater, while the Archduchess

86
Sophie took up her place in the one next to them. Sisi was wearing a
gold-embroidered headdress of the kind generally worn by the wives of
Hungarian magnates. When the Archduchess Sophie caught sight of this,
she began staring at her through her lorgnette in the most conspicuous
way, actually standing up and bending over the front of the box to have a
better look at her. Then she sank back in her place and shook her head,
half in amazement and half in annoyance.
This little scene was not lost on the public. A ripple ran through the
theater and everybody started whispering, until the Empress, followed by
her husband, rose and left the theater before the end of the performance.
A few days after this incident, sad news arrived from Munich. Sisi’s
friend King Maximilian II, the poet and scholar, had died unexpectedly
on May 10, 1864, and was succeeded by his eighteen year old son
Ludwig II, who was totally unprepared for the demands of his new
position. He had always taken a great interest in poetry and knew most of
Schiller’s plays by heart, but he was completely unfamiliar with the
business of politics. The two qualities he had in common with Sisi were
a preference for avoiding society and a love of riding, but the
relationship between them was distant. Their only common ancestor was
Ludwig’s great-grandfather, King Max I of Bavaria, who had displayed
no particularly abnormal mental propensities. Sisi’s mother was a child
of King Max’s second marriage. Moreover, the seeds of the insanity that
would later appear in both of King Max II’s sons were first introduced
into the Bavarian Royal House through the wives of Max I’s successors.
Sisi belonged to an older generation than her cousin Ludwig II, who was
eight years younger than she was.
King Max’s death was followed shortly afterwards by that of his
sister, the Archduchess Hildegarde, wife of the Archduke Albrecht. At
three o’clock on the morning of April 2, the Empress was roused from
her sleep to be informed that the Archduchess was dying. She at once
hurried to her bedside and stayed with her to the end.
“It was the first time,” she wrote to Collett, “that I had seen the death
of an adult. It made the most terrible impression on me as I had no idea
that death could be so hard, that the struggle with death is such a fearful
one. To think that everyone has to go through it! How enviable is the lot
of those who pass away from this world of mourning while still
unconscious children. Yes, life is a hideous thing in which nothing is
certain but death.”

87
 Soon, however, another event occurred to distract her attention from
her mourning. For many years Franz Josef’s younger brother, the
Archduke Ferdinand Max, had cherished the bizarre idea of founding an
Empire in Mexico, having become involved in the schemes of the
Emperor and Empress of France and of a number of unscrupulous
Mexican exiles. This project was now to be realized.
The Archduke and Charlotte had refused to listen to anyone advising
them against the scheme. Sisi was one of those who shook their heads
over the proposal. She simply could not understand the anxiety of her
brother-in-law and sister-in-law for a crown, as in her opinion they
should have been only too glad not to have one. While Charlotte was
staying in Vienna during the last few weeks before their departure, Sisi
showed her every possible sign of affection while making no secret of
her own opinion. But this was to no avail, and on April 14, their ship set
sail, bearing the Archduke and Archduchess toward a more than
uncertain future.

Summer found the Empress once more at Kissengen, taking her annual
cure, and then with her family at Possenhofen. While at Kissingen, she
received a visit from the young King Ludwig II of Bavaria. She was
curious to see him again, as she had heard that he was wonderfully
handsome with his noble face framed with dark brown hair and
fascinating flashing blue eyes. Otherwise, accounts of him varied greatly.
Some were enthusiastic about him, while others detected something in
him that was, to say the least, strange. He had intended to make a short
visit, but was so much enchanted with Sisi that he spent four weeks in
Kissingen. The affection he showed her was not, however, of the kind
that is usual between a young man and a beautiful woman. He looked
upon her without desire, as if upon some fair heavenly vision, and what
attracted him were her views on life and the originality of her whole
being.
Meanwhile, the Schleswig-Holstein campaign against Denmark had
begun, in which Austria sided with Prussia, and on her return home, Sisi
had additional opportunities to show off her kind and sympathetic nature
by visiting the wounded in the hospitals. It was a pleasure for her to
speak to the Hungarian soldiers in their native language, however
haltingly. She was already beginning to read Eötvös and Jôkai with the
aid of a dictionary and to dip into Hungarian history books. What she

88
now wanted was a Hungarian companion with whom she could talk, and,
above all, one she could trust.
A certain Countess Almássy was commissioned to find a suitable
young woman and drew up a long list, including many names from the
Hungarian nobility, but not forgetting an old friend of her own, Marie
von Ferenczy who belonged to a good family of the Hungarian gentry at
Kecskemét, one of whose brothers had five daughters and a disabled son.
Thus it was that the name of Ida von Ferenczy – a lovable, modest and
gentle girl, although not pretty – came to figure among so many great
and noble names. When the list was submitted to the Empress, her eye at
once fell upon the simplest name.
‘I should find it much easier,’ she thought, ‘to have dealings with that
sort of girl.’ She asked for her photograph, and on obtaining further
information about her, remarked, “Yes, I’m sure I shall like her.”
Trembling with anxiety, Ida Ferenczy waited to meet her Empress.
She was a girl with a natural, healthy, cheerful, bright disposition, and a
true Hungarian patriot, and had no idea she was the very type for whom
the Empress was looking – a simple creature, if possible unspoiled by
etiquette and Court intrigues, and far removed from the narrow circle of
the Court aristocracy. What the Empress wanted was somebody who
would serve her and not the Emperor’s mother, as almost all those
around her had done until then.
In November 1864, the Countess Königsegg, Mistress of the
Household, presented Ida von Ferenczy to the Empress, who had just
returned from riding. Blushing crimson, the young girl stood gazing at
her Empress with deep emotion, while the Empress, with that
incomparable charm that made it so easy for her to fascinate people
when she wished to, looked searchingly at her and said in Magyar, “I am
greatly pleased with you. We shall be much together.”
It was not altogether easy for Sisi to find a place for this new lady in
the strictly graded Court hierarchy. Owing to her comparatively modest
birth, it was not thought desirable to make her a maid-of-honor at once in
case this offended others belonging to more important families, so the
expedient was adopted of making her a member of an institution for
ladies of noble birth in Brünn, which would give her the right to be
called “Frau,” and she was appointed “Reader to Her Majesty.”
Sisi immediately told her to be on her guard and strictly forbade her
ever to say a word about what they said or did together. This, she said,

89
was the sine qua non of a satisfactory relation between them. Sisi was
right in that Ida Ferenczy had only been there a few days when the
Archduchess Sophie’s principal lady-in-waiting presented herself, and
the moment she had been introduced to her, said, “Pray consult me in
everything and pass on to me everything Her Majesty says.”
During the early days, Sisi put her through a tough cross-examination
daily to find out whether she had been won over to her mother-in-law’s
party. At first the ladies-in-waiting were very kind to the “new one,” but
soon they noticed Ida’s reticence toward them, and at once their attitudes
changed and they became cold and distant. But the Empress soon
discovered that she had found what she had always longed for, someone
who was devoted to her body and soul, and to her alone.
Soon Ida had become a friend whom she addressed with the intimate
form of the word “you” and trusted implicitly, and for whom she always
rang when she needed someone she could be sure would not spy on her
or gossip about her. And so the young girl of noble birth from Kecskemét
acquired a real influence over the Empress, and not only taught her
Magyar but also nurtured her affection for Hungary.
Since her third cure at Kissingen, Sisi had again enjoyed excellent
health and her beauty had fully returned in all its purity. Indeed, as a
woman of twenty-seven, she was even lovelier than she had been as a
girl. Winterhalter, portrait-painter to the Courts of Paris and London,
who had painted nearly all the royal women and beauties of his day, and
was now at the summit of his fame, painted her twice. One painting was
a full-length portrait of her in state robes and all her jewels; the other was
a more intimate one of her with her hair loose that Franz Josef hung in
his study opposite his writing desk.
On returning to Paris to paint another portrait of the Empress
Eugénie, the artist told her about Sisi’s extraordinary beauty and the
interesting conversations he had had with her during the sittings. The
Empress had long been keen to meet her “colleague” in Vienna, if only
to find out whether she was really as lovely as people said and outshone
herself. She therefore requested the French Ambassador in Vienna to
sound out the authorities as to whether, in the event of the Empress’s
visiting Kissingen again the following year, a “personal and most
respectful overture on her part” would be acceptable. But although the
proposal was put forward very discreetly, Sisi would not hear of it. She
had an intense dislike of visits, Court festivities and ceremonies, but

90
sometimes they could not to avoided, especially when they took place at
her own home.

In February 1865, her favorite brother Karl Theodor went to Dresden to

marry the Princess Sophie of Saxony, and whether Sisi liked it or not,
she had to attend the wedding. Dresden was simply enraptured with her,
and both the Court and the people were so carried away by her that she
was greeted with ovations wherever she went.
“You simply cannot imagine,” wrote the Queen of Saxony to the
Princess Mary Hamilton, “what enthusiasm was aroused here by the
Empress’s beauty and amiability. I never saw our quiet Saxons so moved
before: old and young, high and low, serious or frivolous, nice and nasty,
they were all simply off their heads about her, and still are – her visit was
epoch-making.”
The enthusiasm was, however, one-sided. Sisi did not feel well and
could hardly wait to return home.
“I shall be really glad,” she wrote to her little Rudolf, who was now
seven years old and a particularly intelligent child for his age, “when I
am back with you all again. I do not like it here at all. I feel quite
depressed because I would so gladly go home. Yet I have to stay here for
another four days.”
On March 28, she went on to Munich, where Ludwig II met her at the
station in person, although Sisi had asked that there be no official
reception. The King was at that time the center of public attention, as
although he had been only on the throne a year at that time, he was
already seen to be so fantastical and peculiar that the old conservative
diplomats who were watching him were given one shock after another.
The Austrian Amabassador in particular, Count Blome, shook his head
over the King’s goings on. Even in the autumn of the previous year, the
Ambassador had expressed grave doubts about Ludwig’s behavior and,
“the fact that the crown was now on the head of an utterly inexperienced
prince who was scarcely more than a boy.”
“The young King,” he reported at this time, “is still a problem. His
conduct is full of amazing contrasts, and it is hard to see how he will turn
out. At present it is evident that childish ideas and romantic enthusiasms
preponderate.”
The Ambassador described the King’s bedroom at Hohenschwangau,
lit by a mechanical night lamp, that could, if desired, represent all the

91
changes of the waxing and waning moon, and whose dim light fell upon
a little fountain.
“So far, fortunately,” Blome slyly added, “only the scenery of the
ballet has penetrated into the royal sleeping apartment.”
He saw with amazement how the King was simply lost to the world
as he watched Schiller’s ‘Cabale und Liebe’ at the theater and sobbed
violently as he followed the action in the drama.
“If my judgment of the young prince is correct,” he said, “Nature has
endowed him with more imagination than understanding, and his
upbringing has largely neglected the heart. Grave symptoms can be
observed of exaggerated self-esteem, stubbornness and lack of
consideration. The King cannot bear any advice unless he has asked for
it … Literary men and artists are received in audience more than any
other class of the public … His Majesty’s chief tastes are for music and
literature, and since he has no real musical talent, the former is
concerned more with the words than with the music. It is the text of
‘Lohengrin’ and the other operas by Richard Wagner based upon the old
German saga cycle that is the cause of his preference for Wagnerian
music.”
The Ambassador was incensed at the relationship between the
composer and the young King, and referred to it as a scandal that was
getting worse and worse. Wagner’s “impudent demands for money” and
“improper forms of address” infuriated him. The artist, he said, was
showing off lots of letters in the King’s handwriting, in which he was
addressed with the intimate form of “you,” and praised most
extravagantly.
“What can one say?” said Blome. “It cannot but lead to a decrease in
the respect due to the sacred person of the Monarch. Moreover, the King
has so far taken no pleasure in the society of women, or in associating
with women in general. If he allows himself to become so separated
from the practical world, it is inevitable that he will be taken over
increasingly by the realm of the imagination.”
The Empress hardly knew what to think of her Royal cousin, as in her
old home she heard decidedly kinder opinions expressed about him than
were current in official circles.
“Yesterday,” she wrote to her little Rudolf, “the King paid me a long
visit, and if Grandmamma had not come in at last, he would still be here.
He is quite taken by me. I was very nice and he kissed my hand so often

92
that Aunt Sophie, who was peeping through the door, asked me
afterwards whether I had any hand left. He was wearing an Austrian
uniform again and chypre scent.”
Shortly afterwards, Sisi received the Austrian Ambassador, Count
Blome, who told her the most extraordinary stories about the King. But
on returning home, she told the Emperor, who had read Blome’s reports
from Munich with growing concern, that in her opinion they were too
severe and that she did not like people to be so critical of the King of her
native land.

In July, the Emperor and Empress took up their customary residence at

Ischl with the children. The Empress was not at all pleased with her son’s
appearance. She found him pale and thought he was growing
intellectually too quickly, and she felt sure that the crowded timetable for
his studies was far too exacting, as although he was advanced for his age
both physically and mentally, he had become over-excitable. Since 1864,
when he started on his eighth year, the boy had been in the charge of
Major-General Count Gondrecourt, and from this time his physical
condition had noticeably deteriorated.
Sisi would have liked to dispense with her annual cure at Kissengen
this year, but Dr. Fischer insisted that she must take it. Shortly before
leaving, she made a brief excursion with her husband to Hallstatt and
Gosamühle. She was now a keen walker again, relentless and untiring,
and Franz Josef even proposed that on her return he should take her
chamois shooting with him.
During her first few days in Kissengen, Sisi felt lonely and depressed,
and telegraphed for her great sheepdog, of which she was very fond, to
join her.
“I am so happy at having Horseguard here,” she wrote to her daughter
Gisela. “He was frightfully glad to see me and almost crushed me in his
arms … I walk a great deal in the wood as people follow me around too
much on the promenade. I have had a very kind letter from the King, in
which he says that his doctors have forbidden him to come here … so I
shall be able live here quite quiet and undisturbed.”
During her tedious cure, Sisi had time to write letters and improve her
Magyar by reading. She felt the separation from Ida Ferenczy greatly, as
even during this first year she had become very much attached to her.

93
 “I think of you a great deal,” she wrote to her, “during the long
process of doing my hair, during my walks and a thousand times a day
… But now I am just horribly depressed … Life is tedious enough here. I
have not yet found any cheerful society, nor is there any prospect of such
a thing. I go for a great many walks, which occupy almost the whole day
… and I also read a great deal … Now and then I even play the organ …
And now God be with you, dear Ida. Don't get married in the meantime
either to your Kálmán or to anybody else, but remain true to your friend
E.”
The Empress was unspeakably delighted to see her family again on
her return and her faithful Ida too. The only pity was that Ida could not
join in the long walks of which Sisi was so fond, as she was small and
delicate and had a slight weakness of the heart.
But the atmosphere at the Court of Vienna was the same as ever, to
judge by a letter written in December 1865 by the Landgravine
Fürstenberg.
“I really hardly know,” she wrote, “how anyone is to remain in a good
humor when surrounded by nothing but people complaining, lamenting
and in desperation, as everyone around me, both high and low, is more or
less discontented and out of temper. So this is the much-vaunted Court
life! And one has to try and find a bright side to look upon!” She gives,
however, nothing but good accounts of the Archduchess Sophie. “My
mistress, who is really kind-hearted and considerate, notices when one
pays her attention and likes doing kind things for one … She takes an
interest in everything, and it is incredible how much she knows, so that
one learns a great deal.”
The Landgravine remained critical of Sisi, and in the continuing
quarrels over the education of the children, and especially of the Crown
Prince, she was entirely on the side of the Archduchess Sophie, who
perhaps overdid her well-meaning efforts to turn the Crown Prince into a
highly-educated, able man, thoroughly well prepared for his duties.
As she was again not allowed to have any say in the education of her
own child, the Empress was deeply bitter and so failed to recognize the
Archduchess’s good intentions. In her opinion, General Gondrecourt’s
methods of training could hardly fail to turn her Rudolf “practically into
an idiot.”
“It is madness,” she said in later years to her lady-in-waiting, the
Countess Marie Festetics, “to frighten a child of six with water cures and

94
try to turn him into a hero.”
For instance, on one occasion, Gondrecourt left the child inside the
Tiergarten at Lainz, near the gate, slipped out quickly himself and then
shouted through the gate, “Here comes a wild boar!”
The child naturally began to scream, but the more he cried, the more
they tried to frighten him, until he became so nervous that, as the
Empress said, it was positively dangerous to his health.
Even the Archduchess Sophie did not like such extreme methods as
these, but Gondrecourt was her protégé, so Sisi held her responsible for it
all. When the Empress heard of the wild boar incident, she felt that this
was too much, and summoning up all her courage, she went to the
Emperor.
But Franz Josef hesitated. He saw what trouble and thought his
mother had devoted to bringing up his son and he relied more on her
judgment in this than upon that of his young wife, and could not
therefore bring himself to oppose her.
But now Sisi took an extreme step.
“I cannot stand by and see such things going on,” she declared. “It
must be either Gondrecourt or me.” With these words she left the
Emperor, went up to her room and wrote him what amounted to an
ultimatum. “It is my wish that full and unlimited powers should be
reserved to me in all things concerning the children, the choice of those
by whom they are surrounded and of their place of residence, and the
entire control of their upbringing. In short, I alone must decide
everything until they reach their majority. I further desire that everything
concerning my own personal affairs, such as, for instance, the choice of
those about my person, my place of residence, all changes in domestic
arrangements etc., etc., shall be left for me alone to decide. Sisi.”
The Emperor now saw that his wife was in deadly earnest and gave
way. Gondrecourt was removed from his position, the exclusive charge
of the Crown Prince was transferred to a physician called Dr. Hermann
Widerhofer, and Colonel Latour von Thurnberg took charge of his
education.
The Empress’s relationship with the Archduchess Sophie was, of
course, not exactly improved by all this. Indeed, her life during the next
few months was to be made very difficult for her. Every attempt was
made to break apart the Emperor and the Empress, who went so far as to

95
say that people had tried to ruin her by cunningly offering her
opportunities to embarrass herself so as to alienate them from each other.
But Sisi was no longer a young girl. She was a woman of twenty-
eight who not only knew her own mind but was also daily growing more
conscious of the power her beauty gave her over her husband and the
world in general. This increased her self-reliance and influence, but also
her sense of responsibility.
Until this moment, the education of the Crown Prince had been
conducted on rather too conservative lines, but now this state of affairs
was entirely reversed and became, if anything, too liberal, with the
Archduchess Sophie’s religious influence being sidelined. But, at the
same time, Sisi failed to stop the systematic cramming of the Crown
Prince with lessons of every kind that was making him decidedly
precocious. It was a tragic situation. Everybody meant so well, and with
the resources of the whole Empire at their disposal, they might have
chosen the noblest and most knowledgeable people to train the child in
the best possible way, and yet it all went wrong.
However, it was not in the Empress’s nature to remain always
unhappy and distressed. On the contrary, she was often ready for hearty
laughter, merriment and nonsense. After all, she was young, and,
Empress though she was, meant to get some enjoyment out of life. She
exulted in her successful attempts to influence her husband and showed
her gratitude by showing greater kindness toward him.
On his name day she demanded that the whole Court should get a
little drunk.
“We laughed a great deal at table,” she wrote to her son, “as I made
all the women drink Papa’s health with a whole glass of champagne.
Königsegg was quite worried. Paula [Königsegg’s wife] was inclined to
get too lively, and by the end of dinner Lily [Hunyady] could hardly
stand.”
The Empress now received regular reports from Latour on her son’s
progress, and this was a great joy to her after having been left in
ignorance for so long. In politics, she followed with the greatest interest
Deák’s efforts to present the case for Hungary in the press that Easter,
because gradually Ida Ferenczy’s influence was making itself felt. There
was already some talk of a visit by the Empress to Budapest, and the
appointment of fourteen Hungarian ladies-in-waiting was an intimation

96
that in that country the Court was likely to have a thoroughly national
character. . .
When the Kingdom of Italy was proclaimed in 1861 and formally
recognized by Bavaria, among many other states, Sisi was indignant, as
she judged all questions from the point of view of her family’s interests,
and this recognition affected the rights of her sister Marie, the dethroned
Queen of the Two Sicilies. She did not hide her feelings from the
Bavarian Ambassador to Vienna, Count Fugger, who immediately
informed his Sovereign. Ludwig at once wrote and begged her not to be
annoyed with him, because, he said, no other course had been open to
him.
Sisi replied:

Dear Cousin, rest assured that, whatever my views may

be, I should never cherish bitterness or anger against
you. I cannot deny that I was very much surprised at the
recognition of Italy by Bavaria, of all countries, for every
ruling house that has been driven out contains some
member of the Bavarian Royal Family. However, I
assumed that the reasons that led you to take this
inexplicable step must be so important that, in view of the
important interests and sacred duties that you represent,
my modest opinion of your action cannot be taken into
consideration.

I quite see this, so I am doubly touched by the friendly

impulse that prompted you to write to me, and I beg that,
whatever may arise, you will be assured of the deep love
that attaches me to my home, and the cordial and sincere
friendship that I feel for you in particular.

When Sisi felt that she could no longer bear life in Vienna, her old home
always offered her a refuge, and on December 13, 1865, another crisis
arose suddenly and unexpectedly. The Emperor was away in Buda when
she noticed a recurrence of her old symptoms, and decided then and
there to go to Munich. She telegraphed to her husband for his consent but
in such terms that he could hardly have withheld it. Nobody was

97
informed of her decision, not even the Archduchess Sophie or the
Minister of the Imperial House. She wanted to consult Dr. Fischer, and
since he was unable to wait upon her, she needed to go to him to set her
mind at rest.
Great astonishment was felt among the public at the Empress’s
sudden departure immediately before Christmas and her own birthday.
The Prussian Ambassador saw in her decision a touch of that caprice
that, he said, “is not altogether unusual in the Princesses of the Bavarian
‘Ducal’ line.”
Franz Josef was quite alarmed and at once sent instructions to the
Ambassador in Bavaria to request the King not to go and meet the
Empress in state at the station so that her visit might remain as private as
possible. While still in Buda, he received a letter from his wife saying
that she would return at the latest by the twenty-third of December, in
time for her birthday and Christmas. Yet, in spite of this, she remained in
Bavaria until the end of the year. It was not until December 30 that she
returned to Vienna accompanied by her mother, and to some extent
reassured about her health, to spend New Year’s Day of the fateful year
of 1866 among her children and at her anxious husband’s side.

98
Chapter 7

Königgratz, Sisi and Hungary (1866-1867)

Since the disastrous campaign of 1859 the Hungarian question had been
in a state of seething unrest.
The power of the Crown had been weakened and Hungary never
ceased agitating for the restoration of its old historic rights and the
constitution of 1848.
Toward the end of 1865 there seemed to be some possibility of a
rapprochement between the Vienna Government and the aspirations of
the nation beyond the River Leitha. A militant association of patriotic,
but moderate, Hungarians had been formed in Budapest, whose aim was
to ensure that Hungarian demands were met while remaining connected
with Austria. At the head of this was the advocate Ferenc von Deák, a
man of sixty-two years of age, esteemed in his country by everyone for
his cool political sense, his reasonable attitude during the revolution of
1848, his modesty and uprightness, and his powers as an orator.
In opposition to Kossuth’s separatist plans, he maintained that a total
separation from Austria would mean death to Hungary, from which there
would be no resurrection. This being the case, he was regarded as a
natural mediator.
Deák’s views were shared with Gyula Andrássy, who was aware of
the Empress’s Hungarian sympathies. Ida Ferenczy, with whom he was
in close touch, told him how hard the Empress was trying to master the
Magyar language, and of the antagonism between her and the
Archduchess Sophie, especially over the Hungarian question.
When Andrássy first met the Empress, he too was impressed with her
incomparable charm and beauty. Sisi had heard a great deal about him,
from Ida among others, and looked with some curiosity at the handsome
“hanged” man of 1848, who turned the heads of all the women he met,
and was the perfect type of Hungarian nobleman with his picturesque,
fur-trimmed magnate’s uniform, his tall, slender figure, and his noble
face.
After eleven years of marriage, Franz Josef was renowned for being
as much in love with his wife as ever, and Andrássy saw in this a
possible means of overcoming his hesitations. Franz Josef was still
convinced that nothing but a strongly centralized constitution would

99
secure the future power and existence of the Monarchy. However, so
long as nothing was done to interfere with such vital structural issues as
the army, finance and foreign affairs, he was not altogether opposed to
considering the wishes of the Hungarian nation as this would safeguard
Austria’s position as a Great Power while conciliating Hungary.
During the winter of 1865, the negotiations went on promisingly. The
Hungarian parliament was summoned, and on December 12, Franz Josef
arrived in Budapest to open it without the Empress.
On December 17, deputations from both the Upper and Lower
Houses waited upon their Sovereign, and, prompted by Andrássy and
Deák, expressed the desire that they might soon have an opportunity of
welcoming to their capital “the honored and dearly-beloved mother of
the country, the august Empress and Queen of Hungary.”
The Emperor nodded his consent, whereupon Ferenc Deák proposed
that both Houses send deputations to congratulate the Empress upon her
approaching birthday.
Just as the deputation was about to start out, it was learned that the
Empress was staying over in Munich on account of her ill-health, and so
it had to be postponed, and was not received by her until January 8.
The representatives, almost all of whom belonged to the Hungarian
nobility, appeared at the Hofburg with the Cardinal Primate at their head,
wearing their picturesque magnates’ costumes, and with the tall figure of
Gyula Andrássy towering over them all. Sisi received them attended by
her Mistress of the Household and eight newly-appointed Hungarian
ladies-in-waiting, and wearing a Hungarian national costume of white
silk with a lace apron, a richly laced velvet bodice, and a Hungarian cap
trimmed with lace, above which flashed a diamond crown.
Her lovely face was flushed with excitement, and as she scrutinized
the deputation, her eyes rested upon Andrássy who was looking at her
with an expression of dazzled wonder.
The Cardinal Primate opened his address by speaking of the love and
absolute loyalty felt by the Hungarian nation for the mother of the heir to
the throne, and concluded by expressing a hope that they might welcome
her in their capital – the sooner, the better.
Sisi replied in Magyar, clearly and with perfect fluency, although with
a slight, rather English accent, thanking them cordially and holding out
the possibility of a visit. The Hungarian phrases flowed so easily from
the lips of the Empress – and such a lovely, fairy-like Empress too – that

100
they were greeted with the wildest enthusiasm. Never before had such a
thunderous “Eljen!” rung throughout the Marmorsaal of the Hofburg.
Sisi soon responded to this invitation and by January 29 was in
Budapest. The entry of the “hereditary” Royal pair, as they were
officially styled before the Coronation, went off without a hitch. In front
of the Imperial carriages rode the imposing mounted contingents from
Pest and Buda, known as the Banderien, with their magnificent horses.
But the task awaiting the Sovereigns was no easy one. They had first to
break down the social barriers that had existed between Hungarians and
Austrians since the crushing of the revolution of 1849. Even in a society
that greatly valued hospitality, it had been impossible for fourteen years
for an officer in Austrian uniform to enter a military club or any great
lady’s drawing-room.
On February 1, a deputation from both Houses of Parliament
presented an address of welcome to the Emperor and Empress, and so
warm was the expression of the nation’s thanks for Sisi’s visit that it was
plain to everybody – and above all to herself – that this was no mere
official ceremony but a sign of real personal affection. This was a
something to which she was quite unaccustomed because, in Austria, she
had always felt herself to be faced with hostility and consequently kept
herself on the defensive. But now her heart was touched by the warmth
of her welcome and she answered in kind.
She again replied in Magyar, which met with the same success as it
had done in Vienna in January, so that even the Emperor’s reply to the
loyal address did not produce such a thrilling effect as it would otherwise
have done because it contained an unequivocal warning that Hungary
must not indulge in exaggerated hopes and should put forward only
feasible proposals.
Even here, however, Sisi characteristically found it hard to fulfil the
duties of her rank, as can be seen from her letters to the children.
“I am having a most stressful time here,” she wrote to her little son on
February 6, “but I do manage to go to the riding school every day … If
only you two were here, I would gladly stay for the whole winter, but as
it is, I shall be very glad to be back with you soon … Now I must close
and begin dressing for the city ball, which will be very hot and tiring. I
am speaking almost more Hungarian than German here.”
“There is a great deal to do here,” she wrote to her little daughter.
“The constant dressing and undressing is dreadfully tedious, and the

101
Court that I held for the ladies was very tiring with all the standing and
talking.”
Things of this sort were too exhausting for her and symptoms
reappeared warning her of her old complaint. At times, when things were
too much for her, she would burst into tears as soon as she was alone.
But both she and Franz Josef enjoyed the enormity of the effect produced
everywhere by her beauty and her knowledge of Magyar, which now
became the fashionable language at Court, until members of the
Household, who would never have dreamed of learning it before, began
laboriously murdering the language. Everything good that happened –
amnesties, the restoration of confiscated property, and so forth – was
attributed to the Empress by public opinion, and when Franz Josef
intimated that he could not yet give full satisfaction to Hungary’s
aspirations, this was ascribed to the evil influence of the Court of Vienna,
his mother, of the Austrian ministers, whose influence the Empress had
not yet succeeded in checking.
Meanwhile, the Emperor and Empress’s visit to Hungary had been
viewed with mixed feelings in Vienna.
“I hear,” observed the Emperor in a letter to his mother, “that people
in Vienna are again gratifying their habitual taste for being afraid, this
time in case I might make concessions here, or consent to the formation
of a ministry etc. Of course, I have no plans to do anything of the sort …
but Vienna is grumbling as usual. Heaven preserve one from orthodox
circles in Vienna! Things here are progressing slowly, but with firmness
on the one hand and confidence, friendship and right handling of the
Hungarian character on the other, we shall manage. Sisi is a great help to
me with her courtesy, tact and discretion, and her excellent Hungarian, in
which people feel more inclined to listen to an occasional admonition
from such fair lips.”
The Emperor did not yet realize how far his wife’s enthusiasm for
Hungary had gone. On one occasion, when visiting the girls’ school kept
by the Englische Fräulein in Budapest, she spoke Magyar to the Mother
Superior, who, being an Italian, did not understand a word.
“I hope,” said Sisi, "that next time I come, you will answer me in the
Hungarian language.”
Scarcely more than a fortnight later, she returned, whereupon the
Mother Superior feigned illness and retired to bed. But Sisi went to her

102
room, said something in Magyar which she did not understand, and
shortly afterwards the Mother Superior had to retire.
Sisi was always seeing Andrássy and liked talking to him better than
anybody. And he was glad to see that he was gradually winning her over
to his own way of thinking. On one occasion she said to him quite
spontaneously, “I am speaking in confidence, so I can tell you what I
should never say to anybody else. If the Emperor’s cause goes badly in
Italy, it pains me, but if it goes badly in Hungary, it is death to me.”
On March 5, she left the capital with her husband after a stay of six
weeks and her farewell words at the station were, “I hope soon to be able
to return to my dear, dear Hungary,” pronouncing the word “dear” with
such charm and feeling that tears came into the eyes of all those present.
Attempts were now made in Vienna to counteract the Hungarian
influences at Court. A police warning was actually, received by the
Minister of the Interior accusing the Empress’s reader, Ida Ferenczy, of
being an agent of the left wing in the Hungarian Parliament, hoping to
influence the Empress in favor of their views.

But Hungary was not the only source of anxiety. Germany too was
giving cause for serious alarm and the great question of who was to
enjoy the hegemony of Germany urgently demanded a solution.
Bismarck was using every effort to cut the Gordian knot by excluding
Austria from Germany, if necessary by military force. It was already
clear that the Chancellor had concluded an alliance with Italy, and in
March and April 1866, it became evident that war could no longer be
avoided.
Sisi dreaded the possible repercussions for her native land and family.
She knew that nothing was farther from Ludwig II’s thinking than to take
part in any warlike projects of Bismarck’s, but it was doubtful that he
would prove to be a good ally to Austria.
Sisi would have liked to pay a visit to her old home as all sorts of
things had been going as at Possenhofen. She had long been anxious
about the marriage prospects of her sister Sophie. Duke Philip of
Württemberg had been considered but that had come to nothing. And
now, in March 1866, the Emperor’s brother, the Archduke Ludwig
Viktor visited Possenhofen to ask for Sophie’s hand and was warmly
received by the Duchess Ludovika. However, there proved to be no
attraction between them.

103
 “The Emperor never thought she would have him,” wrote the
Empress to her mother. “If only she could find a husband whom she
loved and who made her really happy. But who?”
Next, a Spanish prince wished to marry the Princess Sophie, but the
Empress knew from her husband that this suitor was “a rough fellow”
and a “bad subject,” and did not consider the Spanish Court at all
desirable.
She would have preferred Ludwig Viktor. “He is really a good
fellow,” she said, “and perhaps after all something may come of it.”
Sisi was glad when in April the Court moved from the Burg to
Schönbrunn.
“The weather is glorious now,” she wrote to Frau von Ferenczy, “and
I am glad to leave the city and enjoy greater freedom, especially as I
have permission to go to the stables by myself when I like.”
Besides, it enabled her to escape the traditional Mayday drive through
the Prater in which the Emperor always took part to please the people of
Vienna.
“This year,” she wrote to her mother, “I am not celebrating Mayday in
the usual wearisome fashion, but have excused myself on the ground of
my cough, and am remaining quietly here, which is beyond comparison
pleasanter than being walked up and down the avenue in a carriage with
one of the Archduchesses and gaped at by hundreds of people … I am
not going to Füred as the times are so depressing, with war at our very
doors, that I do not like to leave the Emperor.”
During these anxious days, indeed, Franz Josef was always glad when
he had a few hours to spare and could take a walk through the woods to
Hainbach with his wife on Sunday afternoon like any ordinary citizen.
By May 8, the whole Prussian army was ready for war and Austria
too began to mobilize both the north and the south. Meanwhile, the King
of Bavaria was quite oblivious to the threat and rumors of war, and on
May 21 paid a secret visit to Richard Wagner in Switzerland.
“I hear that the King is off again,” wrote Sisi to her mother. “If only
he would think a little more about government now that times are so
bad!”
“It would really be a blessing,” she said in another letter, "if the King
of Prussia were to die. It would save so much unhappiness.”
During these sad days she made a number of vows, and on June 9
went to Mariazell to give thanks for the fulfilment of a wish and to make

104
another vow, “As,” she wrote, “God knows there is enough to pray for!”
On June 15, 1866, war was declared, and by the following day
Prussian troops were already on the march. Sisi read the newspapers in
an agitated and disconsolate frame of mind, and wrote the Emperor long
letters every day. She was far more uneasy than in 1859, because Bavaria
now entered the war on the side of Austria, although without enthusiasm
and merely because it felt morally bound to do so.
Had the decision rested with the King, this would certainly not have
happened. During the days preceding the declaration of war, Ludwig II
had retired to the Roseninsel in the Starnbergersee, and for three days his
ministers could not gain access to him. One evening fireworks were
actually seen on the island.
When things began to look serious, the Empress left Ischl to be near
the Emperor and to equip a hospital at Laxenburg, as in 1859.
She was most uneasy about her family.
“I am anxious beyond words about my brothers,” she wrote to her
mother, “and often wish that they had been sisters … They say that the
first time one goes to a church, one’s prayers are answered, and
yesterday I did go to one for the first time. You are right when you say
that the newspapers make one even more nervous. They only tell one the
really important things belatedly, and most of their news consists of lies
and a lot of gossip and opinions that do nothing to change the march of
events. But of course one goes on reading them, because at present one
has no intelligence left for anything else.”
Sisi left the children at Ischl, promising to write regularly, and arrived
in Vienna on June 29. Ill-disposed people in the entourage of the
Archduchess Sophie watched her actions skeptically.
“At least she is here,” was the Landgravine Fürstenberg’s caustic
comment, “and it would be wise not to expect more.”
But in spite of what people said about her, Sisi was trying whole-
heartedly to support her husband, as it was characteristic of her that,
although she was exacting and headstrong in times of peace, when the
seriousness of the situation demanded it, she displayed energy and spirit.
She wrote pages to Rudolf who was now eight years old and
precocious enough to take a keen interest in the war.
“In spite of the depressing times and all he has to do, dear Papa is
looking well, thank God, and is filled with a calm and confidence in the
future which command admiration, although the Prussian troops are

105
terribly strong and their needle guns are giving them a considerable
advantage.”
Sisi kept the Emperor company whenever he had a free minute,
spending the rest of her time visiting the hospitals, where she was
untiring in her efforts to cheer and comfort the wounded, although she
was saddened by the sight of the damage done by the “only-too-efficient
guns.”
Once she saw an infantryman named Joseph Fehér in hospital, a gipsy
whose right arm had been shattered by several bullets. The doctor said
that unless it was amputated, it would be impossible to save the man, but
Fehér shrank from the operation. Sisi did her best to persuade him and
said on leaving him that on her return the next day she hoped to find that,
in his own best interests, he had consented to the surgery. The soldier
persisted in his refusal and Sisi redoubled her efforts. At last he said, “If
Your Majesty will be present at the operation, I will consent.” Sisi shrank
back for a moment, but then replied firmly that she would be there. She
sat at his bedside holding his uninjured hand with infinite compassion
while preparations were being made. Not until the man had been given
the anesthetic did she leave the operating theater and make her round of
the wards, leaving orders that she was to be sent for when the time came,
so that when the soldier recovered consciousness she was still sitting by
his bedside. When he opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was the
Empress’s lovely, sympathetic face.
But the news from the front grew worse and worse, and Sisi had to
write sadly to her son’s tutor that the Army of the North had suffered
terribly in the recent battles, and although a few corps still remained
intact, the Army and Headquarters were retiring for the present to
Moravia.
“You can see from all this,” she wrote on July 1, “that things are not
going very well for us. The Emperor is splendid, always calm and
collected … This is bad news but we must keep up our spirits. Tell
Rudolf as much as you think fit.”
And now, at seven o’clock on the evening of July 3, Count
Crenneville, the Emperor’s Adjutant General, brought him the decisive
telegram.

Battle at Königgrätz, the army defeated and in flight

toward the fortress, in danger of being surrounded there.

106
 The Emperor and Empress felt the shock profoundly. They sat
together late into the night of July 3, waiting for fresh messengers of
disaster to arrive from the theater of war, and realized that the whole
effect of the Archduke Albrecht’s victories in the south would now be
undone. The Emperor was greatly affected but he and his wife continued
to hold their heads high. Sisi had only one thought: how she could best
support and console her husband. She wanted to telegraph to Rudolf’s
tutor again on the evening of July 3, but the Emperor said no.
On the following day, however, she wrote to Latour.
“None can tell what will happen now,” she concluded. “God grant
that peace is concluded. We have no more to lose, so it would be better to
meet ruin honorably. How terrible it must be for you and Pálffy to have
to bear it quietly at Ischl. I understand it only too well, but God will
reward you for making this heavy sacrifice and not abandoning the poor
child whose future is so gloomy. Our poor Emperor! He is indeed sorely
tried.”
She received agonized telegrams from her mother asking what was to
happen next, how the Emperor was, and whether he would stay in
Vienna, or would have to flee.
“We still feel as though we are in a dream,” replied Sisi on the
morning of July 5. “One blow on top of another … and then we are told
we must trust in God! I have no idea what will happen next … It is best
to have no time to think but always to keep moving. I spend my
mornings in the hospitals and I am especially glad to be with the
Hungarian soldiers. The poor fellows have nobody here who can talk to
them … The Emperor is so overwhelmed with business that really his
only relaxation is for us to sit together for a while in the evenings by the
open window.”
The Mistress of the Household, who did not understand any
Hungarian, was annoyed when Sisi talked Magyar in the course of her
visits to the hospitals, for instance to Count Bethlen who had been
wounded at Jičin and was in hospital at Laxenburg, because she did not
know what the Empress might be saying to him.
These events were, if possible, an even greater blow to the
Archduchess Sophie than to the Emperor and Empress, as she now saw
the ruin of all her dreams and desires. The whole political structure she
had tried to build up had collapsed and her proudest hopes were at an

107
end. She now judged her daughter-in-law more justly, as may be seen
from a letter that she wrote to the little Crown Prince.
“I am sending you a few words in haste, my dear child,” she wrote,
“to tell you for your consolation that your poor dear father, God be
praised, is well, physically at least, and your dear Mamma remains at his
side like his good angel, is always near at hand, and only leaves him to
go from one hospital to another lavishing consolation and help on every
side.”
Even her entourage began to change their attitude.
“The Empress spends her whole day in the hospitals,” admitted the
critical Landgravine Fürstenberg, “and is really a perfect providence,
entering into everything, attending to everything, taking thought for
everything in a motherly, affectionate way. God be praised! At last! ... It
was high time that she should try and win the hearts of the public and she
is going the right way about it to do so.”
It was a terribly hot July, but the Empress would not think of going to
the countryside. She would sit by the Emperor’s writing desk all day, and
his aides-de-camp could not repeat often enough what a comfort she was
to their poor Sovereign and how she tried to cheer him up and console as
the bad news came in.
But the enemy was advancing and might shortly reach Vienna. At a
ministerial council on July 9, 1866, arrangements were discussed for
moving the Emperor and the principal officials to Buda. Sisi was to
precede them, the ostensible object of her journey being to visit the
hospitals, but it was really in preparation for the flight of the Court and
had the further intention of appealing to the chivalry of the Hungarians,
as had been done at an equally critical moment by Maria Theresa. No
one could be better suited to such a mission than Sisi. It was now evident
how fortunate it was that the Empress had not shared the anti-Hungarian
views of the Archduchess Sophie and her circle.
When Sisi arrived in Budapest with Ida Ferenczy, she was received
with enthusiasm, and Andrássy and Deák were at the station to meet her.
“It would be cowardly,” said Deák to his friends, “to abandon the
Empress now that she is unfortunate, after our friendly rapprochement
recently when things were going well for the dynasty.”
He and Andrássy escorted the Empress to the castle in Buda and had
a conversation with her in which they explained how the radical,
revolutionary elements on the left, representing Kossuth’s doctrines,

108
meant to take advantage of the terrible plight of the Crown. Now, they
said, was the moment for prompt action so as to take the wind out of
these people’s sails by making concessions such as they themselves had
long been recommending.
Sisi saw that action was necessary. She hastily took a villa in the
mountains near Buda (the Villa Kochmeister), and then, on July 12,
returned to Vienna to fetch the children. She reported to the Emperor
what she had seen and heard, and implored him to make Gyula Andrássy
Minister for Foreign Affairs. Impressed by the Count’s good looks and
brilliant abilities, the Empress saw in him the only possibility of keeping
Hungary attached to the dynasty and of preventing the Monarchy from
breaking in half. But in spite of his heavy burdens, Franz Josef was still
cautious as he could not yet see his way clearly. Whatever course they
adopted, he said, might have the gravest consequences. He must first
take counsel with his ministers.
But time pressed – even the next day might be too late – and Sisi
urged him agitatedly to grant her request, but all he said was, “Take the
children to Buda and be my advocate there. Hold people in check as best
you can and we shall find a way.”
The Emperor did not go to Pest, as he was hoping for the intervention
of Napoléon III, to whom he had ceded Venetia, and he was afraid that in
Hungary the pressure that would be brought to bear on him would be too
great.

On the thirteenth, his wife and children departed for Buda, and at the
same time the jewels and precious objects in the treasury in Vienna were
removed to the Armory in Buda.
On the very day after her arrival, Sisi wrote to the head of the
Hungarian Chancellery in Vienna, George Majláth, asking him to
propose to the Emperor that he should summon Deák to his headquarters
in Vienna, where he might perhaps achieve what she had failed to
achieve herself. She could no longer look on, she said, while those at the
head of the Government in Vienna got things into still greater confusion.
George Majláth enjoyed her confidence as he was one of those whom
she had bewitched by her beauty and charm, and now, having failed to
persuade the Emperor, she turned to him again.
“I will be frank with you,” she wrote. “One thing above all others I
ask of you: be my deputy with the Emperor and take over my function of

109
opening his eyes to the danger into which he will irrevocably fall if he
persists in refusing all concessions to the Hungarians. Be our savior, I
implore you, in the name of our unhappy fatherland and of my son. I also
count upon the friendship, a little of which I perhaps only imagine that
you feel for me. The concession that I tried to obtain from the Emperor,
unfortunately without success, is that he should remove the men at
present forming the Government and appoint Gyula Andrássy as
Minister for Foreign Affairs. This would be a concession to Hungary
without compromising ourselves by yielding anything further for the
present. His popularity in the country would have a calming effect and
inspire confidence, and keep the Kingdom quiet until circumstances
permit us to settle internal affairs … If it is absolutely impossible to
induce the Emperor to do this, let him at least make Andrássy the
Minister for Hungary. The great necessity at the moment is for the
country to be kept calm and induced to place all the strength it can
command at the Emperor’s disposal through a man who is himself a
guarantee of a better future … I commit the whole matter to your charge
… Had you always been the only one, how different the position would
be now, but since we have got so far, do not retire, at least without
having broken the influence of Count Esterházy, without succeeding in
getting the Emperor to remove the man whose well-meant but ruinous
advice is bringing so much misfortune down upon us. I have turned to
you without reserve. I can only give my confidence fully or not at all. If
you can accomplish what I failed to achieve, millions will bless you, but
my son shall pray for you daily as for the greatest benefactor. I am not
trusting this letter to the mail. You may keep the messenger as long as
you wish, but do not let him return without an answer. Isten áldja meg,
Elisabeth.”
Majláth replied that the Emperor, too, was convinced of the necessity
of taking drastic steps to deal with Hungary, but was only afraid lest
similar causes might lead to similar outcomes. He did not want a one-
sided solution such as had been attempted in 1848, and wanted to avoid
the appearance of having initiated these measures under the pressure of
current circumstances related to the war.
In view of the state of feeling in Buda, the Empress could not
understand this hesitation. She had just had a meeting with Andrássy in
the apartments of her Mistress of the Household, and while still fresh

110
from this interview drafted a most serious letter to the Emperor in her
own hand.
“I have just returned from Königseggs,” she wrote, “where I had an
interview with Andrássy, alone of course. He set forth his views clearly
and plainly. I quite understood them and arrived at a conviction that, if
you will trust him – and trust him entirely – we may still be saved, and
not only Hungary but the Monarchy too. But in any case you must talk to
him yourself, and at once too, as any day matters may take such a turn
that he would no longer be willing to take up the post after all. At such a
moment, it really requires great self-sacrifice to do so. Do talk to him at
once, then. You may do so without reserve, for I can assure you that you
are not dealing with a man who is keen to play a part at any price or
striving for a position. On the contrary, he is risking his present position,
which is a fine one. But like any man of honor, at a moment when the
state is approaching shipwreck, he too is prepared to do all in his power
toward saving it. What he possesses – his understanding and influence in
the country – he will lay at your feet. For the last time, I beg you in
Rudolf’s name not to lose this, the last moment … I have asked
Andrássy to tell you the truth quite frankly and inform you of everything,
although unfortunately it is not cheering. Please telegraph to me
immediately upon receipt of my letter whether Andrássy is to leave for
Vienna by the night train. I have arranged with him to be at Paula’s again
tomorrow, where I am to tell him the answer. If you say ‘No,’ if at the
last moment you are no longer willing to listen to disinterested counsels,
you are behaving -ly [word illegible in the original] to us. You will then
be relieved forever from my future – (the original reads ‘B. und Sk’ –
possibly Bitten und Sekkaturen – ‘prayers and teasing’], and nothing will
remain to me but the consciousness that, whatever may happen, I shall be
able to say honestly to Rudolf one day, ‘I did everything in my power.
Your misfortunes are not on my conscience.’ ”
The tone of the letter was very sharp, too sharp indeed for an
Emperor weighed down by so many anxieties. But the danger had been
represented to her as so urgent that she believed she had to be severe in
her husband’s best interests.
The Hungarians knew how to strike while the iron was hot and did
not realize that Sisi was already won over. Two days after her letter to
her husband had been sent, the mail brought her what was apparently a
private letter in a strange handwriting. She opened it and glanced hastily

111
at the signature, but there was no signature. It was an anonymous letter
in which the Empress was addressed as the “guardian angel of Hungary
upon earth” and requested to intervene. Peace, it said, could only be
achieved if the Monarch would restore the laws of 1848 to their fullest
extent, appoint a Hungarian ministry, and have himself crowned King of
Hungary. The ministers recommended by the anonymous writer were
Deák, Ёotvös and Andrássy, three names that she now heard on every
side. Anxiously she awaited the answer to her request.
And now she received a telegram from the Emperor, hurriedly
composed in cypher.
“Have summoned Deák in secret. So do not commit yourself too far
with Andrássy.”
The news of the Empress’s visit to Budapest had reached the ears of
Kossuth too. As leader of the Hungarian exiles in Italy, recent
developments had filled him with much hope and he at once saw how
her visit might threaten his plan.
On July 16, he wrote angrily from Florence to Count Csáky, “The
expressions of sympathy with the Empress on the occasion of her visit to
Pest produced a bad impression here. It is very important, extraordinarily
important, that a national demonstration should be made to counter this.
The national passivity of the Hungarians is most depressing.”
The Emperor had read the Empress’s letter with deep emotion and
now made up his mind to summon Gyula Andrássy. Meanwhile, on the
sixteenth, Sisi again discussed the situation with the Count in detail and
gave him a letter to deliver to the Emperor in which she summed up the
whole situation in Hungary and repeated her former request, before
describing the Villa Kochmeister and the great glass door leading from
her room into the garden.
The next day she received a letter from Franz Josef by courier. He
wrote, “Pray most fervently to God that He will enlighten me so that I
may do what is right and my duty. Well today I am expecting G.A.
[Gyula, i.e. Gyula Andrássy]. I will listen to him quietly and let him talk,
and then examine him thoroughly to see whether I can trust him. The old
man [Deák] is no longer in Pest and has to be brought from the country
so that he can be here tomorrow or the day after, although I should prefer
to talk to Andrássy alone first, as the old man is very clever, of course,
but never had much courage. The situation here is unchanged. Napoléon
is still acting as mediator but has done nothing with the Prussians yet …

112
They may attack any day now, but they will not get across the Danube as
easily as all that … I must close now and get to work. Farewell, my
angel. I embrace you and the dear children with the greatest longing for
you both. God protect us. God protect Austria. Your ardent lover, Franz.”
At midday on the seventeenth, Andrássy was received in audience by
the Emperor and handed him Sisi’s letter, after which he developed his
views quite frankly for an hour-and-a-half and asked the Emperor to
discuss matters with Deák first and foremost. Franz Josef said that he
had already sent for him and requested Andrássy to wait until he arrived.
Quite early on the morning of the following day, the Emperor wrote
his wife an account of this interview with Andrássy.
“I found him, as I have always done before, not definite enough in his
views and lacking in due consideration for the rest of the Monarchy. In
view of the present decisive moment, he wants too much and offers too
little. He is a good, honorable and highly gifted man, but I fear he is
neither strong enough nor has resources enough in the country to carry
his present plans into effect, and then again, according to his own
constitutional theory, he would resign, and I should be left with the
alternative of the extreme left or martial law. First of all, though, I must
have another talk with the old man, and then with both of them together,
before I can come to any decision. I am very grateful to you for your
whole description of the Villa Kochmeister, which must be very pretty.
But I do not at all like the glass door into your room, as people are
certainly able to see in while you are washing and that worries me. So do
have a large curtain made to cover the whole door. I beg you to take care
of your health and spare yourself, or else I shall have you getting
seriously ill and that would be terrible … Your faithful little husband.”
Sisi’s daily letters gave Franz Josef the greatest joy. As he said, she
and the children, whom he “clasps to his heart with the deepest love” in
every letter, were now his only consolation.
At seven o’clock on the morning of the nineteenth, Deák was duly
received in audience by the Emperor. He had taken a room at quite a
modest little inn called the Gasthof zum Hasen at Meidling in the
greatest secrecy under the name of Advocate Ferenczy – which throws a
most revealing light upon the part played by the Empress’s reader – after
which he drove to the Hofburg in a one-horse cab.
“We discussed all conceivable eventualities for an hour very frankly
and in great detail,” wrote Franz Josef to his wife. “I have never found

113
him so calm, clear and sincere. Far clearer than A. and taking the rest of
the Monarchy far more into account. Yet I received the same impressions
from him as from A … Deák inspired me with such a high esteem for his
honesty, frankness and devotion to the dynasty, and confirmed me in my
conviction that, had not this unfortunate war intervened, I should have
come to an understanding with the Parliament before so very long and
along the lines upon which we were proceeding. But courage, resolution
and endurance in misfortune have simply not been granted to the man.
He absolutely refused to meet A. and left at eleven o’clock as secretly as
possible. Today I mean to talk to A. alone so that the threads of the
negotiations may not be broken off, as once the war is settled, it will
certainly be possible to do something with him. Adieu, my Sisi.
Embracing you and the children, I am your little one who loves you
vastly.”

Meanwhile, the Prussians were advancing all the time. On July 18,
Kaiser Wilhelm set up his headquarters at Nikolsburg and the Prussian
campfires were already visible from Vienna. Franz Josef hoped that the
negotiations for an armistice might be successful and looked forward to
them anxiously. Besides, he was concerned about his wife’s health,
“which,” he wrote, “is getting worse and worse.” As soon as an armistice
was concluded, he hoped that the Empress and the children would be
able to return to Ischl where he would perhaps be able to pay them visits.
“As,” said the Emperor, who signed his letter ‘poor little one’, “I too
should be the better for a rest one of these days.”
The armistice was concluded and conversations about the
preliminaries of peace began. “The negotiations will be difficult,” wrote
Franz Josef. “as the Kaiser, in particular, seems quite drunk with his
success … May God’s blessing rest upon them, as in view of the
condition of the Northern Army and after the losses we have suffered,
little is to be hoped for from a prolongation of hostilities.” He admitted
that something must be done in Hungary but did not want to make any
changes before a peace had been concluded. Things of that sort, he said,
should not be done in too much of a hurry. The Hungarian constitutional
question must be resolved with reference to the rest of the Monarchy.
Meanwhile, Sisi had been feeling very ill and over-tired, so she
summoned her old family doctor, Hofrat Fischer, to Buda, which pleased
and reassured Franz Josef.

114
 “I am so anxious about you,” he wrote to her, “and only hope that, if
at all, a long armistice or peace will be concluded, and you will
completely recover in the mountain air … In any case, we are severing
our connection with Germany altogether, whether they demand it or not,
and after the experiences we have had of our dear German associates, I
regard this as a piece of good fortune for Austria.”
Both Sisi and Franz Josef continued to be good correspondents. He
was quite upset and ashamed if a single day went past without him
having written – as for instance on July 24 – and begged Sisi “in
contrition” to forgive him. But if he was anxious about her health, she
was equally so about his. In spite of all the misfortunes that had come
upon him and his country, Franz Josef had remained perfectly well
physically.
“I am often amazed myself,” he said, “to find how calmly I can bear
such events and such a run of unspeakably bad luck and distress without
my health being ruined.”
Until now the Emperor had not ventured to advise Sisi to leave Buda
with the children. But on July 26, the preliminaries of peace were signed,
and since Vienna was no longer threatened by the enemy, Franz Josef’s
first thought was that he could now see his wife.
“Now I should like to ask for something very nice,” he wrote on July
28. “If only you could pay me a visit! It would make me endlessly happy.
I simply cannot get away from here at present, much as I should like to
come to you all … I long for you so, and perhaps you, too, would be glad
to see me again at such a sad time. You might leave the children there for
the present … It would be a great comfort to me.... The Prussians are
evacuating the whole of Austria and Hungary. In the preliminaries the
integrity of Austria and Saxony is safeguarded, we are severing our
connection with Germany entirely and paying twenty million thalers
[“thaler” is pronounced “dollar” in English and was approximately
equivalent to the US silver dollar]. I don’t know what the Prussians are
doing in the rest of Germany, or what they are going to steal, that is no
further concern of ours … I am glad that you can ride again. It will do
you good.”
Meanwhile Count Andrássy had paid a visit to Deák, who had, so to
speak, run away to avoid him. He went to see him on his estate at Puszta
Szent-László, and received assurances of his support, which made this a
momentous event. He then returned to Pest, waited on the Empress

115
again, and informed her that Franz Josef was raising great difficulties,
and that Belcredi, the Austrian Chief Minister, in particular was
obstructing everything. He went back to Vienna, where the Emperor
received him on the twenty-ninth in a noticeably more friendly spirit
than the first time. He reported the outcome of his conversations with
Deák, which contained the essential points of the Ausgleich
[compromise] arrived at later. Yet in spite of his assurances that the new
Government would endeavor to bind the nation to the interests of the
Sovereign and the Crown, the Count made no progress and the Emperor
still said that he wanted to examine the question more
thoroughly.
In accordance with Andrássy’s advice, Sisi considered that the
moment had come to exert some personal pressure on her husband, and
since he, too, urgently wanted to discuss things with her, on July 30 she
decided to leave for Vienna. That same evening she sent word to
Andrássy from Schönbrunn that she wished to speak to him the
following day.
“It is certain,” noted the Count in his diary on receiving this
invitation, “that if success is achieved, Hungary will have more cause
than it knows to be grateful to the ‘beautiful Providence’ who watches
over it.”
While he was writing this, Sisi was urging her husband to grant
Hungary’s wishes, but he quoted Belcredi’s objection to the effect that
concessions to Hungary might make a bad impression upon Bohemia,
which had suffered, on the whole, more than any other part of the
country from the effects of the war. There was a strong difference of
opinion and Sisi turned almost nasty, continuing to harp on the subject
until the Emperor, too, became angry.
On July 31, Andrássy waited upon the Empress and found her quite
depressed as she had to admit that she had achieved nothing. She took a
very gloomy view of the future and already foresaw the collapse of the
whole Empire.
“I shall continue to work toward the way of deliverance that you have
shown me,” she said, “but I have lost all hope of seeing my activities
crowned with success.”
All that she could obtain was that Andrássy was again allowed to lay
his ideas before the Emperor on the new form to be given to the
Monarchy as a whole. But now peace was in sight and the pressure of

116
having an enemy at his door was removed, so it was easier to feel that
the state of affairs in Hungary was not so critical as had been alleged by
Deák, Andrássy and the Empress.
After a short stay in Vienna, Sisi left for Buda again on August 2. In
spite of everything, Franz Josef was very sorry to let her go.
“My dear angel,” he wrote, “here I am alone with my many worries
again and longing for you. Come and pay me another visit again soon –
that is if your strength and health allow it – because although you were
quite disagreeable and teasing, I love you so infinitely that I cannot exist
without you. Take great care of yourself and be careful when you are
riding, as I am very anxious about you … The damned Hungarian
Legion [the Klapka Legion that had sided with the Prussians] is once
again advancing on Hungary. I only hope our troops will get to it in time
and cut it to pieces. Adieu, my Sisi. Think lovingly of me and come back
again soon.”
Now that the consequences of the unsuccessful campaign began to be
visible, Franz Josef was “melancholy and depressed, absolutely numb,”
and had to pull himself together with an effort if he was not to flag at a
critical stage of the peace negotiations. He longed for his wife more than
ever and touchingly signed his letters “Your lonely little husband.”
But Sisi was still cross with him for not giving way to her over the
Hungary question. She considered this to be a personal defeat and took it
particularly to heart because Andrássy had witnessed it. Franz Josef’s
repeated hints that she might soon visit him again met, therefore, with no
response. On August 5, indeed, she wrote to him in very formal terms, as
though to punish him, saying that she could not come as Schönbrunn was
unhealthy at that time of year and only Ischl was a possibility for her and
the children, if that.
This time Franz Josef became seriously provoked and his reply
contained an unprecedented note of bitterness. Even the opening words
were less affectionate than usual.
“My dear Sisi,” it said, “most heartfelt thanks for your letter of the
fifth, the whole tenor of which is merely intended to prove to me by a
host of arguments that you want to remain in Buda with the children, and
intend to do so. Since you must see that I cannot leave here at a moment
when there are growing hostilities again in Italy and peace negotiations
with Prussia are still in progress, and that it would be contrary to my
duty to adopt your exclusively Hungarian point of view and slight those

117
lands that have endured unspeakable suffering with steadfast fidelity, and
now, if ever, require special consideration and care, you will understand
that I cannot pay you a visit. If you find the air here unhealthy, so be it. I
should be just as unable to visit you at Ischl as in Buda, so I must simply
make the best of it and continue to bear patiently the lonely existence to
which I have long been accustomed. In this respect I have learned to
endure a great deal, and in the long run one becomes accustomed to it. I
shall waste no more words on this point, because otherwise, as you most
justly remark, our correspondence would become too boring, so I shall
wait quietly to hear what you decide later.”
This letter reached Sisi at a moment when she was already feeling
both nervous and unwell. She tried to allay her inward unrest by riding
for hours on end in the countryside around Buda. Ida Ferenczy, who did
not ride and so was unable to accompany her, observed Sisi’s restless,
unsettled state of mind with anxiety.
The Empress answered the Emperor’s angry letter quite briefly,
without entering into its contents in detail, by merely describing her
rides.
In the course of one of these she passed close by Gödöllö, a country
estate about eighteen miles from Budapest. Sisi had heard a great deal
about it, and about a monument that the first owner had erected to his
favorite gray horse, so she was very eager to see it and asked Franz Josef
if she might not pay the place a visit, especially as there was a hospital
there for the wounded.
Franz Josef’s irritation did not last long and he once more expressed
his alarm at hearing that Sisi was injuring her health by riding
excessively, because she was getting even thinner and hardly sleeping at
all. It was exactly like what had happened in 1859.
“If you wish,” he replied, “you may go and visit the wounded at
Gödöllö. But do not look it over as if we wish to buy it as I have no
money at all and we shall have to economize enormously in these hard
times. The Prussians have devastated the Imperial estates enormously too
and it will be years before they recover. I have reduced the sum allocated
for the expenses of the Court next year to five million, so more than two
million will have to be saved. Nearly half of the stables will have to be
sold and we shall have to live very simply … Your sad Männeken.”
This letter touched Sisi. She regretted that she had been so harsh with
her husband and wrote to him on August 8 that she would visit him in

118
Vienna around the thirteenth, this time for a whole week.
Franz Josef was delighted. “And now I have three more days in which
to rejoice over seeing you again, and then almost eight happy days when
I shall have you all to myself and we shall be together as much as
possible … Be nice to me when you come, as I am so depressed and
lonely, and I need you to cheer me up.”
When Sisi returned to Vienna, she felt an icy atmosphere within her
entourage as well as in the behavior of the Archduchess Sophie toward
her, and she avoided her as much as possible. People wanted to shame
her for being away from the Emperor so long and, above all, for
preferring to live in Hungary. This time not only the Court but the
Government were against her, and although the Empress’s intervention
in favor of Hungary had been kept strictly secret, even the people noticed
with displeasure her long absence in Buda that could no longer be
entirely attributed to the war. Belcredi was especially indignant because
it upset his plans and said that Sisi had taken advantage of the Emperor’s
state of mind while he was being assailed by bad news to give markedly
more support to those “specifically and selfishly Hungarian efforts” to
which she had long given her patronage, although so far without success.
Sisi did not discuss the Hungarian question with Franz Josef so much
this time. Andrássy had advised her not to in order to avoid infuriating
the Emperor. But he added that, when the time was right, they could
begin again and lead the Monarchy slowly toward the Ausgleich.
Sisi’s visit was a real comfort to Franz Josef, as the closer they got to
peace, the worse the internal difficulties of the country became. He was
therefore quite unhappy when she returned to Pest on August 19. He felt
that she was too cheerful to be leaving him, and before twenty-four hours
had elapsed, he wrote to her telling her how lonely and depressed he was
and how much he longed for her.
“There are still difficulties over the peace negotiations,” he wrote,
“and it will be even longer before we get the damned Prussians out of the
country. It is enough to make one despair.”
It was particularly painful for him to face all this alone because, as he
said, when Sisi was there he could at least talk to her and she often
cheered him up, although now and then she was rather teasing.
“Yes, how I miss my treasure – and what a treasure!” he wrote to her.
“Do not leave me alone so long, my Sisi. Do not leave me to pine so
long, but come back to me.”

119
 The Peace of Prague was signed on August 23, and Franz Josef could
now think about going to Ischl so as to “have himself patched up into a
usable condition again” by the good air and his favorite sport of
shooting, because, he added, in his present state he was good for nothing.
On September 2, Sisi accordingly returned from Buda with the
children, but the influence of her visit to Hungary lingered with her. Not
content with talking Magyar with her reader, she felt a desire to resume
the regular study of the language.
Ida Ferenczy’s attention was now drawn to Max Falk, a very well-
read and cultivated Hungarian journalist. He was summoned to the
palace and arranged to read the works of Hungarian writers with the
Empress. Sisi was most conscientious and wrote out her exercises as
punctiliously as any child at school. Ida Ferenczy was present at the
lessons, which often led to a debate on burning questions of Hungarian
politics. Falk was also an advocate of the Ausgleich, beside which he
managed to give expression to his own liberal Jewish ideas. They often
discussed the subject of revolution, and the Empress was quite prepared
to maintain that a republic was the best form of state, as she had no need
to learn liberal views from Falk, having imbibed them in the schoolroom.
In September, Franz Josef was faced with the difficult problem of
choosing a Minister for Foreign Affairs. He did not intend to give this
important post to Andrássy as he feared the reaction this might provoke
in Vienna. But an Austrian would not consent to an Ausgleich with
Hungary, to which he was being slowly but surely won over, largely
through his wife’s influence. He therefore thought of choosing the Saxon
statesman Baron Beust who had left his own King’s service after the
unsuccessful outcome of the war.
Every possible expedient was adopted for countering Andrássy’s
influence. It was known that the Empress was still pushing his claim, so
one day she received an anonymous letter warning her against the Count
as an “unusually vain man.” She immediately showed him the letter, and
when he asked whether she was at all inclined to believe it, she said
“No,” adding that if she had been, she would not have mentioned it to
him but observed for herself whether it was true. She was also able to tell
him that the Emperor had actually joined her lately in drinking the health
of the “old gentleman” (as they called Deák), after which they went on to
speak about Beust.
“What do you think of him?” asked Sisi.

120
 “I can hardly think,” replied Andrássy, “that a foreigner is capable of
infusing life into the Monarchy. One has to have been born in a country
and lived in it to be able to save it. I hope Your Majesty will not take it
amiss and think me lacking in modesty if I voice my conviction that at
the present moment I alone can be of use.”
“How often I have told the Emperor that!” cried Sisi, hardly allowing
him to finish his sentence, and she dismissed him with assurances that
she would make every effort to complete her husband’s conversion. She
had, moreover, met Beust at the time of her visit to Dresden and found
him personally uncongenial. Yet in spite of all her efforts, she still failed
to obtain the appointment of Andrássy as Minister for Foreign Affairs.
Beust took up his office on October 30 and at once declared that the
Government’s first task must be to arrive at a settlement with Hungary,
so the Austrian Belcredi had gradually to give way.

At the beginning of 1867, another deputation from both houses of the

Hungarian Parliament waited upon Their Majesties in Vienna, but it is
significant that they were received by the Emperor and Empress
separately. The Emperor was not looking well. The disasters of the past
year had left their mark on him. He read his answer to the address and
paused on reaching the word Ausgleich, only to be met with a profound
silence rather than the applause he was expecting. The deputations next
proceeded to the Empress, who answered them cordially in Magyar.
Franz Josef was edging much closer to his wife’s views on Hungary,
especially as Beust did not regard the dual system as at all likely to
endanger the position of the Monarchy as a great power, but believed, on
the contrary, that it would be on a far stronger and more powerful footing
if Hungary were contented. So, at the end of January, Sisi felt that she
could go with a quiet mind to Zurich, where her sister the Countess of
Trani had just had a daughter.
On the twenty-second, she heard of the betrothal of her sister Sophie
to King Ludwig II, which particularly pleased her because attempts to
arrange a match for the Princess had broken down so often. So she
decided to pass through Munich on her way to Switzerland, and King
Ludwig, who had a feverish cold, rose from his sick bed to go and greet
her at the station as she passed through.
The Empress enjoyed herself in Zurich, but complained to the
Governor and Dr. Escher, the President of the Executive Council, who

121
had been invited to meet her, that whenever she went for a walk, crowds
of schoolboys followed her about and made her quite nervous.
She wrote to her “sweet little Rudolf,” telling him about the
“excellent things” in the pastry cooks’ shops and “Tante Spatz’s” baby
girl. “On the whole,” she said, “the baby in her swaddling clothes is not
as revolting as babies usually are in that condition. But from close to it
does not smell very nice.”
“I like the little thing best,” she wrote to her mother, “when I neither
see nor hear it, because, as you know, I have no time for little babies.”
She missed her usual opportunities to speak Magyar, but devoured
Hungarian books to prevent herself from losing ground.
“I hope I may soon hear from you,” she wrote to her husband, “that
the Hungarian business has at last been cleared up and that we shall soon
find ourselves in Ös-Budavára [near Budapest]. As soon as you write and
say we are going there, my heart will be at rest, as I shall then know that
this long-cherished goal has been achieved.”
About this time Beust became Chief Minister, Belcredi retired into
private life, deeply offended, and the way now lay open for the
Ausgleich. On February 18, Franz Josef’s order was read out in the
Hungarian Chamber of Deputies, appointing Andrássy Chief Minister for
Hungary and restoring the Hungarian Constitution. Taxes and military
contingents were now voted punctually, and the majority of the nation
aligned itself on the side of Deák and Andrássy, although Kossuth called
them traitors and accused them of betraying their country.
Rejoicing in this event as a personal triumph, Sisi had returned to
Vienna on February 8. In token of her gratitude, she was particularly
charming to her husband, but as she gained popularity in Hungary, she
lost it in Austria.
The Emperor Franz Josef had not been very enthusiastic about the
Ausgleich, but after the failures of 1859 and 1866 he lacked a certain
level of confidence in his own judgment. The Empress’s liberal opinions
began to gain ground as the influence of the Archduchess Sophie
decreased. And the coronation in Budapest, fixed for June, was
considered as a major triumph for Sisi.
In March, she was plunged into mourning by the death of her brother
Karl Theodor’s wife, and so did not accompany the Emperor to Pest on
March 12, where he was received with indescribable scenes of

122
enthusiasm. Franz Josef was quite overcome at the sight of the masses of
people lining his route to the castle in Buda.
“I had no idea,” he remarked to Andrássy, “that Pest had so many
inhabitants,” whereupon Count Andrássy informed him that, in its joy
and enthusiasm at the reconciliation with its sovereigns, and in the hope
that now the King and Queen would make longer and more frequent
visits to the country, the Hungarian nation had bought them a summer
residence in the country. It was remembered in Pest that, during her last
visit, Sisi had greatly admired Gödöllö, so that was the place that had
been chosen. Franz Josef also learnt that plans were being made for
crowning Sisi at the same time as himself, although the custom was that
the Queen should not be crowned until some days after the King.
“It was an enormous pleasure to me,” she wrote to him, “to hear that
Gödöllö is to be our property, and I can hardly wait for when it will be
ready and we are able to live there. Until then I remain in a state of
anticipation. If only I could see it soon. It was a pleasant surprise, too,
that we are to be crowned together. It will not be as tiring as it would
have been if the whole thing were going to last several days."
She now devoted the whole day to studying Magyar.
“I am very pleased with Falk’s manners,” she wrote to her husband,
“and hope that at last I shall make real progress. You need not be jealous
of him. He is the spitting image of a typical Jew, but very clever and
agreeable.”
Sisi was frustrated that even now she had not mastered the language,
but she was well on the way. She was constantly reading poems,
including the poems of Ёotvös, who had now become a minister.
“What a pity,” she remarked, "that Ёotvös has written so few poems.”
“It is indeed,” replied Falk, “but there is one that has not been
included in the collected poems, as it is banned.”
“What do you mean ‘banned’? Why? What is it about?”
Falk then read her ‘The Standard-bearer,’ which tells how, when the
flower of Hungarian manhood lay dead upon the field of Mohács, the
flag, the symbol of freedom and independence, remained standing, and
how it had been kept flying all down the centuries and would continue to
fly for all eternity.
Hearing that Falk was in regular correspondence with Ёotvös, the
Empress asked him to show her his letters. This way she learned many
things that wouldn’t have come to her ears in any other way. Later she

123
corresponded with Ёotvös herself, asking him to send back her letters
corrected. She was particularly interested in all works that had been
banned or that had been subjected to legal proceedings.
Once, the conversation turned upon Count Széchényi, that greatest of
Hungarians, who met with such a sad fate, and the Empress remarked, “I
have heard of a work of his called a ‘Blick,’ or something of the sort.
What is it about?”
She was referring to Széchényi’s ‘Blick auf den anonymen Rückblick’
[A Glance at an Anonymous Writer's ‘Retrospect’], which poured
ridicule on Bach’s pamphlet entitled ‘Rückblicke.’ It was of course
banned and could only be smuggled into the country with great
difficulty.
“Have you got a copy?” asked Sisi, and, when Falk did not reply to
her at once, she continued, "Ah, then you have got it! Well, please bring
it to me.”
“But, Your Majesty …” stammered Falk.
“Perhaps you are suggesting that I ought not to read such books!”
declared the Empress, and walking over to her writing desk, she picked
up a slender brochure entitled ‘The Collapse of Austria, by a German
Austrian,’ published in Leipzig in 1867 and strictly banned, of course,
inside the Monarchy.
This extremely radical little book that went so far as to assert that the
existence and peace of Europe depended upon the collapse of Austria,
and closed with the words that it was a necessary condition for the
development of Europe, made a profound impression upon the Empress
who was still deeply affected by the catastrophe of the previous summer,
especially since the author savagely attacked her greatest enemies at
Court, Grünne, Gondrecourt and Belcredi.
Falk was startled to see such a pamphlet in the Empress’s hands, but
he regularly brought her all sorts of banned books, including the history
of Hungary’s struggle for liberation by Bishop Michael Horváth, who
was ultimately granted a pardon at Sisi’s insistence.
The influence of this liberal Jewish journalist was strongly
disapproved of at the Court of Vienna, although nobody knew exactly
what was going on, but nobody dared take any overt steps against him as
this would have meant making an open attack on Sisi. A determined
attempt was made to get rid of him at the end of April, when the Court

124
moved to Schönbrunn, but it was a long time before this was made
possible.
At last all obstacles to the Ausgleich had been removed, and on May
8, the Empress accompanied Franz Josef to Budapest where she was
literally buried in flowers on her arrival.
“For three centuries,” wrote Ёotvös, “we had tried faith, and then
again and again hope, until only one possibility remained: that the nation
should be ready to love some member of the ruling house from the
depths of its heart. Now that we have succeeded in this, I fear for the
future no longer.”
The reference was obviously to Sisi, and the enthusiasm of all of the
people rose to spectacular heights as the coronation drew near. Ёotvös,
who had always been in opposition until now, attended upon the Empress
and rejoiced at these celebrations as if he were the Controller of her
Household. And in response to little Rudolf’s inquiry as to whether, on
her arrival in Pest, “there had been a really loud cheer,” she was
delighted to be able to confirm that there had been.
On May 11, the Emperor and the Empress drove out to Gödöllö,
where speedy alterations were being made both to the castle and the
grounds, and the Empress was particularly pleased with the shady park
and the splendid opportunities for riding. She thoroughly enjoyed the
racing in Pest and took a childlike pleasure at the sight of the country
folk riding bareback.
Such was her interest in Hungarian politics that she sent for Horváth
to explain certain things in his ‘War of Liberation,’ and remarked in
relation to the executions of 1849, “I was not yet a member of the
dynasty at that time when a number of things were done in the name of
my husband, then quite a young man, which he regrets more than
anybody. Were it in our power, we two would be the first to recall
Ludwig Batthyány and the martyrs of Arad back to life.”
She had just read Kossuth’s open letter to Deák condemning the
whole system of the Ausgleich, and worried it might create difficulties
again at the last moment. But Horváth assured her that Kossuth’s views
were outdated and nobody listened to him anymore. Subsequent events
seemed to confirm this view.
Sisi followed the political struggle with intense interest, reading the
daily reports of the Parliamentary debates and public speeches.

125
 “I see more and more,” she wrote playfully to Franz Josef, “that I am
extraordinarily clever, although you have an insufficiently high opinion
of my superior intelligence.”
Some apprehension was felt as the coronation day approached. Deák
received threatening and abusive letters, and there were rumors that the
Left intended to create a disturbance during the ceremony – so
considerable precautions were taken.
The festivities began on June 6. Sisi now saw herself as having
achieved her goal and felt rewarded by the love of the whole of the
Hungarian people. Yet a slight shudder came over her when she thought
of the endless succession of fetes that she would have to attend.
“It becomes a fearful burden,” she wrote to her mother, “to dress up
first thing in the morning in a Court train and crown, and hold Courts
and receive presentations all the time. And then this appalling heat! How
delightful it must be at Possi just now. The coronation takes place on
Saturday at seven o’clock in the morning, and the days before and after it
are crammed with tiring ceremonies. The balls and the theater will be the
worst of all, as at present it is no cooler even at night.”
While, according to ancient custom, Sisi was herself mending the
Mantle of St. Stephen that was to be placed upon Franz Josef’s shoulders
at the coronation, darning holes in the coronation stockings and putting a
lining into the crown – which was far too big – she heard the sad news of
the death of Mathilde, the Archduke Albrecht’s eighteen-year-old
daughter, who, in attempting to hide a cigarette that she was smoking in
disobedience of her father’s wishes, had set her thin cambric dress on
fire and been instantly burned to death. This tragic event threw the Court
into mourning, but the coronation festivities had already started and
could not now be postponed.
On the evening of June 7 there was a detailed rehearsal in the parish
church at Buda, and Sisi had many satirical comments to make about it.
In the evening she tried on the magnificent costume of white and silver
brocade scattered with jewels, patterned with lilac blossom, and worn
with a black velvet bodice, a masterpiece created by Worth in Paris for
the comparatively modest sum of five thousand francs. She showed
herself to the Emperor, who was so enraptured with her appearance that
he kissed her on the forehead.
At seven o’clock on the morning of June 8, 1867, a coronation
procession of unsurpassed brilliance moved off from the Royal Palace.

126
The great and good, in numbers never seen before, were dressed in their
picturesque magnates’ costumes and riding noble horses whose trappings
gleamed with gold as they assembled to do honor to the Kingdom, but at
the same time to display their own pomp and power. The Emperor,
wearing the uniform of a Hungarian marshal, rode on horseback. Sisi
looked bewitchingly lovely, dressed up in the national costume with a
diamond crown on her head and riding in the state coach drawn by eight
horses, while the Life Guards, with leopard skins floating from their
shoulders, rode on their gray horses, the whole scene making up a picture
of bewildering brilliance that recalled the proudest splendors of the
kingdom and the aristocracy in its glory days during the Middle Ages.
Sisi’s beliefs were too modern for her to fully engage in this aspect of
the occasion, but, like everybody else, she was awed by its solemnity.
Tears rose in her eyes as Andrássy, representing the Palatine with the
assistance of the Prince Primate, placed the Crown of St. Stephen on the
Sovereign’s head in the cathedral and laid the Mantle of St. Stephen
upon his shoulders. And when, according to ancient custom, the same
Crown was held over her shoulders to crown her Queen of Hungary, she
forgot all her wariness and dislike of ceremonies, and thrilled with the
consciousness of this great moment and the unbounded love that she read
in the eyes of the glittering assembly. She was stirred to her depths as the
Te Deum thundered forth, and as she and her husband laid the thick gold
coins bearing their own effigy upon the golden plate, her eyes again
filled with tears.
As she left the church with her husband, a cheerful roar went up from
the huge crowd. The Emperor then mounted his horse and rode off
toward the Coronation Mount and the platform where he was to take the
oath, followed by a glittering procession in which rode the princes of the
Church, clad in their most magnificent robes with coronets and miters,
while the Minister of Finance scattered gold and silver coins among the
people. Meanwhile, Sisi hastily changed from her heavy coronation
robes into a simple white tulle dress and took the steamer over to the
other bank of the Danube, to the Lloydpalais, where she looked on from
a flower-bedecked window at the procession and the ceremony that
followed.
Amid all this splendor, what interested her most were the magnificent
horses, but she had some difficulty in suppressing a smile when two
hapless bishops, who had never been on horseback in their lives before,

127
involuntarily parted company with their mounts as salvoes of musket-fire
were heard and the cannons thundered out their salute.
She looked anxiously at the Emperor, whose splendid horse was also
a little restive but was held in check by its skilful rider, and looked on
while her consort raised his finger in taking the oath, then galloped up
the Coronation Mount on his milk-white horse and brandished his sword
toward the four points of the compass.
Not till the state banquet was over were the Emperor and Empress at
last able to retire to their private apartments, worn out with fatigue.
On the fifth day of the festivities, Their Majesties were each
presented with a coronation offering of five thousand gold ducats in a
splendid silver casket. It was, of course, anticipated that they would use
the money for the good of the country in some way, but nobody had
expected it to be set apart for the widows, orphans and disabled men
belonging to the honvéds who had fought against Austria. And, whether
rightly or not, all Hungary was convinced that this suggestion, too, was
to be attributed to Sisi.
What Sisi most enjoyed were the natural products presented to them
as offerings. A long procession of young men and women, dressed in the
national costume, brought them glorious flowers, fruits of incredible
size, a model in confectionery of the Coronation Mount with the
Emperor on it, a crown of St. Stephen made from the finest pastry,
enormous richly-decorated hams, two huge live fish each weighing sixty
pounds and slung on a pole, dear little lambs and calves, and last of all a
fascinating cream-colored foal for the Crown Prince, with its mane and
tail plaited with tricolor ribbons in the colors of the Reich.
Despite previous fears, the six exhausting days of festivities had gone
off without incident and Sisi had captured the imagination of all who had
seen her. The Pester Lloyd spoke of the bewitching Queen as one of the
noblest of earth’s creatures. Everybody agreed with Déak, who was
presented to her on this occasion, when he said that their lovely
Sovereign was a perfect emblem of graciousness and reconciliation.
Even the Archduchess Sophie’s ladies-in-waiting admitted this,
although their praises had a little sting in their tail.
“The Coronation is over,” wrote Helene Fürstenberg. “Her Majesty
looked quite supernaturally lovely during the solemn act, as moved and
absorbed as a bride. I rather felt, too, that in one respect, she did interpret
it in this sense.”

128
 A comprehensive amnesty roused the greatest enthusiasm. Almost all
the exiles returned home, with the exception of Kossuth, whose organ,
the Magyar Ujság, merely dismissed the festivities with a belated
reference amounting to four lines amidst the ‘News of the Day.’ “The
coronation, it remarked laconically, “went off as arranged on the eighth
of the month. Except for certain slips that could be attributed to the
restiveness of the horses, there were no accidents to record.”
But now the proud days in Budapest were at an end, and none too
soon either, as they put a terrible strain upon the Emperor and Empress.
On June 12, they set out for Ischl in the hope of finding some rest there
and avoiding potential demonstrations of popular feeling in Austria
where the coronation had been viewed with decidedly mixed feelings.
The events of the past year had exalted Sisi to the point of being
regarded as semi-divine in the eyes of the Hungarians but had
commensurately diminished her in the eyes of Austrians.

129
Chapter 8

New Interests in Life (1867-1871)

The Emperor and Empress now hoped to enjoy an untroubled spell of

rest at Ischl after all their exertions, but they were to be bitterly
disappointed. The month of June 1867 brought several heavy blows.
On the nineteenth, Franz Josef’s brother, Maximilian, was shot in
Mexico and so ended the adventure that had lured this complete idealist
and his ambitious consort to destruction.
The impression produced by this tragedy was immense, especially on
the Archduchess Sophie as Max was her favorite child. Although she had
long dreaded this terrible event, she refused to believe that it had really
happened. She seemed to age suddenly, her spirit was broken, and,
although fond of society before this, she retired into herself and nursed
her sorrow in secret. Sisi shared her grief, but even this blow failed draw
the two women closer together.
A still more severe shock to the Empress was caused by the news that
the Hereditary Prince of Thurn and Taxis, her sister Helene’s husband,
had died on June 26. The marriage had been a particularly happy one,
and when the Emperor and Empress went to Regensburg for the funeral,
they found the widow out of her mind with grief. She sought consolation
in redoubled piety, which earned the warm approval of the Archduchess
Sophie.
On July 2, after a short stay at Possenhofen, Sisi returned to Ischl,
where she found a letter from the King of Bavaria who had accompanied
her part of the way from Munich and had once more been captivated by
her charm.
“You can have no idea, dear Cousin,” he wrote in his exuberant
manner, “how happy you made me. The hours recently passed in the
railway carriage I reckon among the happiest in my life. Never will their
memory fade. You gave me permission to visit you at Ischl. If the time
which will be so happy for me is really approaching, when my hope of
seeing you will be fulfilled, I shall be of all men on earth the most
blessed. My sense of the sincere love and reverence and of faithful
attachment to you that I cherished in my heart even as a boy makes me
see heaven on earth, and will be extinguished by death alone. I beg you

130
with all my heart to forgive the contents of these lines, but I could not
help myself …”
Sisi did not respond. She had heard a great deal at Possenhofen about
her future brother-in-law’s strange behavior toward his fiancée and felt
that this unusually friendly letter of the King’s was only a prelude to
confidences that she would have to hear at Ischl. The last thing she
wanted was to be involved in the business of this marriage. What she
wanted was peace and to keep all over-powering people away from Ischl,
especially the highly disconcerting King Ludwig II. So she persuaded
Franz Josef to write without saying a word about the projected visit as a
very broad hint indeed.
The peace of her life in Ischl was now threatened from another
quarter because the newspapers wrote that her aunt from Prussia was
expected to make a visit. In this case, she was determined to leave Ischl,
however inconvenient this would be. She had not forgotten the events of
the previous year and wrote to the Archduke Ludwig Viktor, “I will have
no dealings with Prussia.”
Before Maximilian’s death, the Emperor and Empress had meant to
accept Napoléon III’s invitation to visit him in Paris. Sisi disliked the
idea and now the matter had settled itself as it was clearly impossible for
Franz Josef to go to Paris, given the fact that it was Napoléon who had
persuaded his brother to take on an adventure that had so tragic an
ending. Napoléon and Eugénie wanted, however, to make an official visit
to Salzburg, and Beust, who was working hard to effect a rapprochement
between Austria and France, strongly urged Sisi to be present, too, as he
knew how anxious Eugénie was to make the acquaintance of her
beautiful Imperial rival.
Sisi raised objections, saying that she was not feeling well and was in
pain. “Perhaps I am with child,” she wrote to the Emperor. “While this
uncertainty lasts, the thought of the Salzburg visit is very distressing. I
am so utterly miserable that I could cry all day. Comfort me, dear soul,
as I am in great need of it. I take no pleasure in anything. I do not want to
ride or go for walks either. Everything in the world is insipid. Why could
you not come here early today, or tomorrow, which is a holiday? What
have you got to do in Vienna? Or are you enjoying yourself so much at
Laxenburg (you know with whom!) that you cannot tear yourself away?”
She meant that he must be holding very enjoyable audiences as he
was always receiving beautiful girls. The Emperor denied this and

131
earnestly begged his wife, for reasons state, to take part in the meeting at
Salzburg if her health made it in any way possible. The Empress
submitted with a sigh.
The meeting at Salzburg was watched by the world with intense
interest, not only because of its political importance, but because the two
beautiful Empresses were to appear together in public for the first time,
making it possible for the world to judge which one was the lovelier..
The people of Salzburg gave the Emperor of France a very cold
reception and a sharply worded order was needed before the town
council would officially welcome him. People were astonished to see
that the Empress Eugénie, although not of Royal blood, had not only
beauty in common with Sisi, but an innate dignity as well.
But on the whole Sisi triumphed all along the line. The Empress of
Austria’s beauty was so fascinating and charming that it had a quality
that no one, not even the Empress Eugénie, could compete with. It was
now also observed that Eugénie was a head shorter than Sisi, and that her
Parisian dress, with its skirt coquettishly looped up to show her little
foot, was not quite in keeping with Austrian ideas as to what was suitable
for an Empress. The Empress Sisi got on well enough with her, but there
was no question of any such intimacy as was described in the tales that
circulated among courtiers and journalists. The two women had too little
in common. The Empress of Austria did not care for Eugénie, who in
turn was never at ease owing to her humbling sense of her own lowly
origins. In her dealings with Sisi, she showed great tact, treating her with
deference without demonstrating any loss of dignity.
Both Franz Josef and Sisi were truly glad when the festivities were
over as the heat had been excessive and the Emperor experienced no
pleasure in renewing his acquaintance with Napoléon III, whom he
called “the arch-scoundrel of Villafranca.”
Sisi now left for Zurich where she met her sister Queen Marie of the
Two Sicilies and the Count and Countess of Trani. But an outbreak of
cholera soon drove the sisters to Schaffhausen, where they admired the
waterfalls on the Rhine. The Empress had been constantly ill and had
gradually come to the conclusion that she was expecting another child.
She longed to see her children, who were general favorites at Court,
although the Landgravine Fürstenberg, who could never resist a dig at
Sisi, said that they were such dear little creatures, such good, amiable
children, that they must be taking exclusively after their father.

132
 Sisi also longed for her handsome sheepdog, Horseguard. She had
inherited her love of dogs from her mother. This, too, was a target for the
Landgravine Fürstenberg’s sarcasm, and she wrote home to her sister
that Sisi, “lives for her dogs, always having some on her lap, at her side,
or in her arms, and kills fleas at table and even on the plates!” She added,
however, by way of consolation, that the plates were always changed at
once.
When Sisi saw a beautiful dog in the street, she had no hesitation in
going up to the owners and speaking to them, even as absolute strangers.
She met a man with a great mastiff at Schaffhausen, who recognized her
and, to her great surprise and delight, greeted her with the words, “God
bless you!” in Magyar, whereupon she entered into conversation with
him.
Her joy in dogs, and especially in large ones, was now common
knowledge, but her taste was not shared by the Emperor who found the
great beasts “more than fatiguing.”
Sisi appointed her own kennel man who proudly styled himself “the
official charged with the care of the Imperial dogs,” but appeared in the
books as a “supernumerary Court indoor servant” and was dismissively
referred to as “the dog boy” by the ladies-in-waiting. Offers of dogs
came to her from every direction, but for the most part they were too
small for her liking.
“I am almost afraid,” she wrote to Ida Ferenczy, “that there is no dog
in existence as large as I want.”
“Which will be gladder to see me again,” she wrote again, “you or
Horseguard? … Kiss your friend Monica, although I do not know her,
since you write that she is so beautiful.”
Sisi loved all good-looking people and sought them out wherever
they could be found. In Zurich, too, she discovered someone who was
very pretty about whom she wrote to the Crown Prince Rudolf, “We have
made the acquaintance of a little girl of twelve years of age who is ill but
very beautiful, with magnificent hair. We talk to her and often I even kiss
her! You can imagine how beautiful and sweet she must be!”
Sisi was so charmed with Schaffhausen that she persuaded the
Emperor to come there and fetch her home, stopping in Munich on the
way, where they heard the strangest stories about the King of Bavaria
who was engaged to the Empress’s sister. The Austrian chargé d’affaires
reported that the King was behaving in a quite abnormal way and that his

133
extreme excitability undoubtedly suggested mental derangement. He
sought solitude, spending most of his time in aimless moonlight rides
among the mountains, and the constant postponements of his marriage
were due to his feeling that he could not bear to give up his solitary life
in a world of dreams
Sisi’s family was already indignant at his behavior. As for the
intended bride – whose heart had never been in this engagement –
Ludwig and his eccentricity frightened her. The King seldom visited her,
and when he did, it was usually unannounced and at night. The Duchess
Ludovika could do nothing to prevent this, but whenever there was a
prospect of such a nocturnal visit, she had Possenhofen or Kreuth lit up
from top to bottom and made all the servants stay up. They all waited
until the King deigned to appear, even at midnight or in the small hours
of the morning.
But whenever the date of the wedding was touched upon, the King
went silent. In fact, the breaking-off of the betrothal was not due to the
amiable Princess Sophie, whose disposition was then still a joyous one,
but to a lack of natural feeling on the part of her fiancé.
At last, Duke Max intervened. He wrote to the King that these
constant postponements, and the rumors to which they inevitably gave
rise, were no longer compatible with the dignity of his House and his
daughter’s honor, and that if the wedding did not take place on
November 28, Sophie would release him from his engagement.
The Princess received the King’s reply four days later.
“Dear Elsa,” it began, the style being, as usual, taken from a Wagner
opera, “your parents desire to break our engagement, and I accept the
proposal … Your Heinrich.”
The entry in his diary under this date, 8 October, is as follows.
“Sophie dispensed of. The gloomy picture dissolves. I longed for
freedom. I thirst for freedom now that I live again after this torturous
nightmare.”
And on the day on which the marriage was due to have taken place he
added, “Thanks to God, the fearful thing was not realized.”
This affair made a deep impression not only in Bavaria but
throughout the whole world, but the sensation was especially great in
Bavaria where the future Queen’s Household had already been chosen
and arrangements had been made for the marriage on the King’s wedding
day of a thousand poor couples for whom dowries were to have been

134
provided from the royal bounty. The people were disappointed and
angry, and gossip said that the King had thrown the life-sized marble
bust of his fiancée out of the window into the courtyard.
Meanwhile, the King himself moved daily from one palace to
another, or went off into the mountains, so that neither his Ministers nor
his family ever knew where to find him.
When Sisi heard this news, which evidently came to her as a
complete surprise, she wrote to her mother in indignation, “You can
imagine how angry I am with the King, and the Emperor is too. No
words can describe such conduct. After what has happened, I cannot
conceive how he will be able to show himself in Munich again. I am
only glad that Sophie takes it as she does. With such a husband, God
knows, she could never have been happy. I now redouble my wishes that
she can find a good husband at last, but who will that be?”
At the same time, in view of the naturally strained relationship
between the families of Duke Max and the King, she suggested that the
Duchess should send Sophie on a visit to her in Vienna for a while. But
the Princess did not want to come, and the Duchess thought it better that
she should live for the moment in complete seclusion.
Sisi and Franz Josef did not agree.
“We do not consider,” she wrote to her mother, “that there is any need
whatever for Sophie to go into seclusion. She has done nothing to be
ashamed of. It is only the King who has, and for the very reason that he
and the Queen Mother would probably prefer not to see her, if I were in
her place I would go to the theater quite often and in general live exactly
as before, the only difference being that, naturally, nobody from our
family should go to Court.”
Sisi resolved to do all she could to secure another husband for Sophie
as soon as possible, if only to show the King how indifferent they were
to him and his behavior.
Meanwhile, the question of the Emperor and Empress visiting Paris
had again been raised because they were obliged to return the Salzburg
visit. Sisi absolutely refused, and it was therefore decided to inform the
world that, in the opinion of her doctors, she was in the third month of
another pregnancy. The Empress, therefore, excused herself on these
grounds in a letter to the Empress Eugénie with assurances of her regret
that she could not travel, while at the same time writing to her mother
that she did not in the least regret not going to beautiful Paris.

135
 The Emperor therefore went alone and thoroughly enjoyed his visit.
He had expected great things of Paris and the International Exhibition
there, but he was “knocked off his feet,” because, as he wrote to Sisi, he
“had never thought it would be so overwhelmingly beautiful.”
He was in Paris at the same time as King Ludwig II of Bavaria, who
had found it expedient to escape his country for a while after the scandal
over his engagement.
“The Empress is always inquiring after you,” reported Franz Josef.
“At present she is principally occupied in trying to keep King Ludwig at
arm’s length as he has been here now for three days and is still pressing
her for a kiss. For the rest, he is as jolly as a sand boy … She has
arranged with Ludwig to go up with her today in the balloon that makes
daily ascents from the Exhibition Gardens. There is no danger as the
balloon is a captive one, but the Emperor is to be told nothing about it.
You would not do a thing like that behind my back … On the whole I am
enjoying myself very much, yet I have an infinite longing for home and
for you all, my only real happiness. I am sure you will be very nice to
me, and I will comfort you in your sorrows and do my best to cheer you
up …”
The next day, he wrote, “The Empress actually did go up in the
balloon with Ludwig and he was enchanted with it … One cannot be
anything other than lost in astonishment at all the imposing, beautiful
and useful things one sees. It is like a dream.” And he added the next
day, “Little Napoléon is an intelligent but very little chap. He has lots of
freckles and wears red stockings like a cardinal. We have something
better to show. I have seen a great many little ladies and very pretty ones,
but my thoughts are only of you, my Angel, and you may set your mind
at rest.”
Sisi was perfectly happy that her husband should enjoy himself in
Paris, although he too complained of being tired.
“I am glad I am not there,” she wrote to her mother. “After all,
everything is so much easier and simpler for men.”
But in spite of it all, Franz Josef longed for home. “This is my last
letter before we meet again, for which I am very impatient,” he wrote,
adding in French, “Where is one better off than in the bosom of one’s
family?” and ending with, “I embrace you, my glorious, passionately
beloved wife, together with the children, and remain, your Männeken.”

136
 The Emperor was hoping to enjoy a rest on his return from Paris, but
he found none in Vienna as he was immediately overwhelmed with
Government business of all sorts, audiences, festivities, visits to
exhibitions and the like. He now began to appreciate Gödöllö, the
coronation gift of the Hungarian nation, as Sisi did, finding it a refuge to
which he could retreat when the Viennese annoyed him altogether too
much. Thus the new country house became a fresh bond between them.
The peace at Gödöllö, in contrast with the never-ending rush of
Vienna, was particularly appreciated by Sisi as her condition made itself
increasingly felt. Much resentment was now felt in Vienna owing to
rumors that the child was to be born in Hungary and not in Austria, and
that if, as was hoped, it was a son, it was to be called Stephen after the
patron saint of Hungary. Despite opposition from Viennese Court circles,
Andrássy urged the Emperor to accede to Sisi’s wish that the child be
born on Hungarian soil, but great indignation was felt at Court when it
was announced that on February 5 the Empress would leave for Hungary
on a visit lasting several months.
However, generally, the Court was glad that she was going. The
dislike felt for her there went to such lengths that the Landgravine
Fürstenberg reported with horror to her sister a remark let slip by an
aristocratic lady in an unguarded moment, to the effect that the Empress
deserved to have a miscarriage.
Again, when on February 18 the Court ball took place without her,
everyone said that it had only taken place at all thanks to the absence of
this “eternally obstructive element.”
The children remained behind in Vienna and the Empress was
delighted to hear that Rudolf was now a keen and courageous rider. Nor
was she unduly concerned when Latour reported that he was too inclined
to make light of religious matters.

As the time for her delivery approached, Sisi became more and more
restless. She had a great longing for her husband.
“I am doing well,” she wrote, “but I need your company to cheer me
up.”
The Emperor had great hopes of a son, but the Empress was
convinced that the child would be a girl and had thought of names for
her. She intended to call her Valerie, and her prophetic instinct was
justified when, on April 22, she gave birth to a little daughter.

137
 Franz Josef described the baby in a letter to Rudolf, who was full of
curiosity.
“She is a beauty,” he wrote, “with great dark-blue eyes, a nose that is
still a bit too fat, a very tiny mouth, enormously fat cheeks, and such
thick dark hair that it could be dressed already. Her body is very plump
too, and she hits out vigorously with her hands and feet.”
Sisi was determined to keep her child entirely to herself. The
Archduchess Sophie’s influence was now at an end and this time the
child could not be taken away from her. The young mother would not let
her out of her sight, but jealously defended her rights and allowed
nobody to approach the child without her express permission. She had
never been able to fully regain her influence over the other two children,
who were much older, and her obvious preference for the new baby soon
led to her being nicknamed at Court “the one and only [die Einzige],”
and three weeks after the birth of the little Archduchess, the Jewish
Women’s Society of Vienna begged permission to enroll her as an
honorary member.

The Empress’s recovery from her fourth confinement was slow. On June
9, 1868, although still far from well, she left Hungary for Ischl. What
upset her most was that she was not yet allowed to ride and was in
consequence “often fearfully melancholy and would like to cry all day.”
When his consort was in these moods, the Emperor always advised
her to go home to Possenhofen as he had learned from experience that
she recovered her spirits among her brothers and sisters.
On August 9, Sisi arrived at Garatshausen on the Starnbergersee,
where Duke Max’s family had gone through a very uncomfortable period
of strained relationships with the King since the unfortunate affair of the
broken engagement. Such a situation could not be allowed to last
indefinitely and efforts were made to bring about a reconciliation, which
the King’s peculiarities did not make any the easier. If anyone could
bring about this reconciliation, Sisi could, as the King still thought most
highly of her. Indeed, she had been the chief reason for the betrothal in
the first place, as, if he was to endure living with a wife at all, he would
have preferred her to be a sister of the Empress.
Meanwhile, his eccentricities were becoming increasingly evident.
His chief occupation during the day was now photography, but at night
he would ride around and around the brilliantly illuminated Court riding

138
school. Sisi was most amused at the story of his “ride to Innsbruck.” He
had appeared at the riding school, armed with maps. He then ordered two
horses, one for himself and the other for a groom, and while these were
being saddled up, he sat down at a table and reckoned the number of
times he would have to ride around the course in order to cover the
requisite distance. Then he mounted his horse and started riding around
and around the riding school with the unhappy groom behind him,
continuing all night from eight o’clock in the evening until three in the
morning, which was about the time it would have taken him to reach
Kufstein. Then he dismounted, ate a frugal meal, and began again, riding
day and night as long as his horse held out, until he had reached what he
calculated to be the end of his journey before going home
satisfied.
When the King and Duke Max’s family met at last in May 1868, it
was quite accidentally and under comical circumstances. While riding
around the Starnbergersee, the King had been thrown from his horse,
which then ran away, and although uninjured, he would have had to walk
all the way home had he not met a peasant with a cart who offered him a
lift. As chance would have it, while sitting in the straw with mud on his
clothes on this one-horse cart, he met Duke Max’s family driving along
the road in two fine carriages. The peasant drew toward the side of the
road deferentially, and the King, who never drove out as a rule except in
gorgeous coaches drawn by magnificently harnessed grays, appeared to
his former fiancée in this very humbling state for the first time since
breaking off the engagement.
The Duchess Ludovika would no longer allow the name of Wagner to
be mentioned in her presence, and adopted the views of those who
regarded “the whole Wagner business” as a dangerous craze of the
King’s. But great satisfaction was felt when, on August 13, Ludwig paid
a visit to Sisi at Garatshausen and also met all of Duke Max’s family.
Meanwhile, Franz Josef had also arrived. Having heard the strangest
stories about King Ludwig from every direction, he purposely started to
get to know him in order to form his own opinion of him. The result was
not reassuring, and the Emperor and Empress began to ask themselves
anxiously how it would all end.
An eligible suitor was now discovered for the Princess Sophie in the
person of Prince Ferdinand of Bourbon-Orléans, Duke of Alençon, a
grandson of King Louis Philippe, whose handsome presence made him a

139
worthy successor to King Ludwig. This time it was decided that there
would be no delay and to celebrate the wedding in September. And so,
the cheerful and vivacious Sophie, who had rapidly recovered from her
broken engagement, now found a home of her own. She was, however,
somewhat surprised when, on the eve of the wedding, while the guests
were already assembling, her faithless fiancé Ludwig II suddenly
appeared unannounced and stayed for a few minutes.
Sisi had, of course, brought her daughter Valerie with her to the
Starnbergersee, but from the very first she had been overly anxious about
her baby’s welfare. There was a stormy scene with the wet-nurse one day
as Valerie’s digestion was rather upset and Sisi ascribed this to the
woman’s milk.
“I am terribly alarmed, really horrified,” she wrote to Ida Ferenczy
and at once telegraphed for another nurse, “because, believe me, I do not
have a moment’s peace. It is a horrible feeling when one knows that
one’s dearest treasure upon earth is surrounded by people one cannot
trust.”
A regular battle had still to be fought with the old nurse, who was at
once dismissed, because, as Sisi said, “not even the Lord God can get on
with her,” although, when the nurse was questioned, she said the same of
the Empress. She simply could not understand all the panic because a
baby was unwell for a day and suggested that Sisi feared for the child
because she regarded her as hers and hers alone.
In her letters to Ida Ferenczy, Sisi gave rein to her feelings as she
knew Ida to be a faithful soul to whom she could safely write anything
that was on her mind. She complained that she could not have lunch
alone with Dr. Balassa of Pest, who had been called in to attend Valerie,
because this was not considered proper. And she mentioned, for instance,
that Prince Liechtenstein, whom she called the “the handsome prince,”
had made a most favorable impression on her sister the Queen of the
Two Sicilies and she would like to know what impression she had made
upon him. She also said that she had given up all hope of getting rid of
her Mistress of the Household, the Countess Königsegg. She never
forgot to send a thousand kisses to the horses, confessed that she rather
shuddered at the thought of Schönbrunn, and begged her reader to get
Andrássy, whom she always called “our friend,” to arrange for some
hunting at Gödöllö.

140
 The Emperor had now returned home and wrote her rather teasing
letters. On happening to mention his Adjutant General Count Bellegarde,
he added, “Don’t blush now!” because at first Bellegarde seemed to have
had something of a crush on the beautiful Empress, but had met with
little encouragement. So when the Count arrived at Possenhoffen early in
September on a mission from the Emperor, Sisi wrote to Franz Josef,
“Bellegarde has arrived. You may set your mind at rest. I am not flirting
with him or anyone else.”
After a visit of nearly six weeks, Sisi returned by way of Vienna to
Hungary, where she was to remain until Christmas Eve. To the great
indignation of the Viennese, she had spent exactly three-quarters of the
year following the conclusion of the Ausgleich in Hungary as she
preferred the undisturbed peace of Gödöllö.
But whenever Valerie suffered from the inevitable childish illnesses,
the Empress was beside herself.
“You will pity me from the depths of your heart,” she wrote to her
mother on October 5, 1868, “when I tell you what I have suffered during
the past week and the mortal terror I have endured. My Valerie has been
ill, and since I love her as much as you do Gackel, and get just as upset
about her as you used to do when he was a baby, you will be able to
imagine what a state I was in … But God be praised, she is much better.”
In fact, this was only a minor illness caused by the cutting of her first
tooth, yet it was enough to make Sisi distribute two hundred gulden
among the members of the Imperial Royal Nursery, as Valerie’s
attendants were called.
The Empress was always flying from one extreme to another. She
would turn sad, melancholy and even desperate at the least provocation,
only to change abruptly to irrepressible mirth, impish humor and the
spasmodic fits of laughter which it caused her such agony to stifle on
solemn ceremonial occasions. She was highly entertained by Valerie’s
new wet-nurse, who would sing all manner of csárdás (dance tunes) in a
deeply masculine voice, yet had a perfect terror of mice, of which there
were plenty at Gödöllö.
One eventually found its way into the Empress’s room.
“Yesterday evening,” she wrote to the Emperor, “there was a great
hunt in my old room. The children, women, footmen and chambermaids
were all chasing a mouse with brooms, sticks and dusters. It was a
steeplechase, in the course of which the unhappy mouse fell into

141
Horseguard’s drinking bowl and then jumped out of the water. At last
Wallner [a footman] caught it after it had crept under Bally’s skirts and
wrung its neck.”

Sisi was quite unhappy when the quiet, idyllic life at Gödöllö came to an
end and she had to move on to Budapest at the beginning of December,
where, in accordance with the terms of the Ausgleich, the delegations of
Austria and Hungary were meeting to address mutual concerns. Now she
had to see people all the time, while the dinners, visits to the theater,
receptions and invitations hardly left her time to breathe. Occasionally
she was delighted to discover someone interesting among the crowd of
those eligible for presentation at Court with whom she could chat, but
most of them simply bored her.
When Maurice Jókai was presented to her, she said to him, “I have
wanted to meet you for a long time since I discovered your works. I
consider ‘Kárpáthy Zoltán’ to be the best.” ‘Kárpáthy Zoltán’ is a work
in which Jókai embodied the spirit of nationalism.
The Empress’s prolonged conversation with the poet attracted
particular attention as he was a deputy of the Left, which was hostile to
the Government, and editor of the Hon, a paper representing left wing
views. In return, he begged permission to present his next work to the
Queen-Empress, and with the happy conclusion of the Ausgleich in her
mind, she said to him, “I think you will have more time to devote to
poetry now that political questions are not so pressing.”
“I have reason to be grateful to poetry, too,” replied Jókai, “as I owe
to it the gracious favor you are showing me at present which my political
activities would not, perhaps, have earned me.”
“I understand nothing about politics,” replied Sisi with a smile,
whereupon Jókai responded with a ready wit, “The highest achievement
of policy is to win the heart of a country, and Your Majesty understands
perfectly well how to do that.”
The poet was quite dazzled by the enchanting beauty of his Queen.
When she spoke, he said, her every feature spoke too, especially her
eyes, whose glance outshone the brilliance of the diamonds she wore.
“We see in her,” said Jókai, “not the Queen, not the woman, but the
genius of our land.”
All Hungarians were saying the same; it was the general opinion, and
without flattery.

142
 When Sisi met the poet again later, she asked him, “Have you done
much work since I last saw you? The more you write, the more I shall
have to read.”
“Your Majesty,” he replied, “is the first lady in the land in supporting
literature too.”
“And you are still working?”
“To me work is life.”
“Then you are a happy man!”
It was no mere desire to please that made Sisi say this to him; she was
merely expressing her real feelings. She loved and read the Hungarian
poets Petöfy, Ёotvös, Arany and Jókai, among others, with deeper
interest than did thousands of people to whom they spoke in their own
mother tongue.

It was about this time that she heard of the sudden death of Dr. Balassa,
who had attended her and her little daughter during the past year. Sisi
sent a warm message of sympathy to his widow and asked her to come to
see her in Budapest as soon as she felt strong enough to share her sorrow
with others. To those whom she found congenial and who served her
devotedly, Sisi was always loyal and never failed to notice real love and
attachment, although, conversely, she never forgot an insult or a slight.
Meanwhile, she had dismissed the Count and Countess Königseggs-
Bellegarde, the last survivors of the Household chosen for her by the
Archduchess Sophie, and appointed Baron Ferenc Nopcsa to be
Controller of her Household. He too was a Hungarian, which naturally
caused general indignation at the Court of Vienna because the
Königseggs had made themselves broadly popular there and it was well
known that their retirement had not been exactly voluntary.
The German and Slav papers were already complaining that Sisi was
now living in a world that was entirely Hungarian, that she always spoke
Magyar, was intimate with only Hungarian ladies, and only chose nurses
for little Valerie who could sing Hungarian folk songs to her. Sisi was
therefore received rather frostily when she returned to Vienna on
Christmas Eve after spending two hundred and twenty days of the year in
Hungary, and no sooner was she back when she began to pour out
complaints to her mother.
“I am beside myself at having to be here,” she wrote in January 1869,
“and long all the time for Buda where it is so much more beautiful and

143
more pleasant in every way.”
When, in the following March, she returned to Hungary after a short
trip to Agram, she felt happy and contented, although even in Buda she
could not live in complete seclusion if the Emperor did not happen to be
there, as she had occasionally to receive people and perform the duties
that went with her rank, if only the most critical ones.
“I am living now,” she wrote to the Emperor, “like the nun in the snail
shell who thought she was quite hidden until the abbot came and wished
her good morning.”
Meanwhile, Count Gyula Andrássy increasingly made use of Ida
Ferenczy when he wished to communicate with the Queen of Hungary.
From this time on, indeed, the communication between them became a
regular one, and Sisi was drawn still further into the Hungarian political
arena. She embroidered the first colors for the newly-established honvéd
force which was of revolutionary origin and even Franz Josef began to
be noticeably latching onto this trend in her ideas.
The Emperor visited his wife at Buda as often as his engagements
would allow and he was always unhappy when he had to leave her again.
“You are quite slipping away from me, my dear little one,” she wrote
in April 1869 after such a parting. “During the last few days I had trained
you so nicely, but now I shall have to begin all over again when you
return …”
“You know me and my habits,” she wrote some days later from
Gödöllö, “and my extinction de roi [avoidance of royal matters], but it
you do not like me as I am, I must be pensioned off.”
It was, indeed, high time for Sisi to return to Vienna if she was not
entirely to forget that she was Empress of Austria as well as Queen of
Hungary. She loved basking in the adoration of Ida Ferenczy, who was
now in constant attendance upon her, and whose name for her beloved
Empress was “the dewy flower,” a nickname that Sisi herself used with a
touch of irony at her own expense. Every evening Ida was at her bedside
and Sisi had grown so much accustomed to this that she could barely get
to sleep without her as a “soporific.”

In July of 1869, the Empress rented Garatshausen, her eldest brother

Ludwig’s country house, for six months, as she felt most at ease amid the
familiar surroundings of her homeland.
She admitted to Ida Ferenczy that she was rather lazy.

144
 “I am living here with a perfectly vacuous mind, as I love to do,” she
wrote to her. “I am speaking so little Hungarian at present that I quite
regret it. Your dewy flower is not particularly loquacious and confines
herself to absolute essentials.”
Ida Ferenczy had to keep her informed about the Emperor’s state of
mind, how her favorite horses were, and so on, and was always being
urged to write more often as the Empress said it was a bad habit only to
answer letters, and positively discourteous besides.
Sisi’s own chief occupations were bathing, riding over to see her
various brothers and sisters, reading, and taking little Valerie out for
drives. She showed a marked taste for holidays abroad and seized every
excuse for traveling. Her sister Marie, the Queen of the Two Sicilies,
who had been reconciled with her husband and was now in Rome,
begged her to come and keep her company in her first confinement. The
Empress then asked Franz Josef for permission to do so, a most
inopportune request in his eyes as the political situation there was on a
knife edge. A French army was occupying Rome and trying with some
difficulty to protect the Pope in earthly matters against the onslaughts of
the new Kingdom of Italy, but he could deny her nothing.
In spite of her congenial family life in Bavaria, Sisi confessed to Ida
Ferenczy that she sometimes suffered from “a terrible Hungarian
homesickness,” and she was overjoyed to hear that “our friend,” as they
both called Andrássy, was coming to Munich from July 26 to 28, and
proposed to take this opportunity to visit her. This was even more of a
pleasure for her than usual because of her longing for Hungary. “But do
not be alarmed,” she wrote to her confidant, “I shall not hug him, for all
that.”
The Archduchess Sophie had announced her intention of visiting the
Duchess Ludovika on July 21. Valerie’s new English governess, a Miss
Throckmorton, did not know her yet and had no idea of the strained
relationship between her and the Empress, and so Queen Marie of the
Two Sicilies undertook to enlighten her, adding a warning that, if she
wanted to get on well with Sisi, she must on no account say anything to
offend her Hungarian sensibilities.
The Empress’s thoughts were now focused mainly on her upcoming
visit to Rome. “Everything depends now,” she wrote to her faithful Ida,
“on whether my husband allows me to be away for such a long time. My
greatest sacrifice will be leaving my dear Ballerina behind! What a pity I

145
cannot take all my favorite horses with me. Kiss her for me from top to
toe, but take care she doesn’t kick you in the stomach as she is a
treacherous creature at times.”
On one occasion, the real master and mistress of Garatshausen –
Duke Ludwig and his morganatic (not born into an aristocratic family)
wife, Baroness Henriette von Wallersee, née Mendel – came to dine with
her there informally, while the rest of the family, who were still sulking
at the Duke’s marriage, and both their suites were not invited.
“I was glad enough to dispense with my entourage. I can imagine
how they muttered, but I could not offend such exalted individuals by
seating them at the same table as my sister-in-law!” wrote Sisi to Ida
ironically.
The Empress was already showing particular affection for her
brother’s little daughter, Marie, who was as lanky as a bean-stalk and
tore around the garden in muddy shoes and stockings, but was lively and
merry, and had ridden ever since she was five – a special
recommendation in Sisi’s eyes. In spite of whatever the rest of the family
might think, she was determined to have a close relationship with the
child and guide her future.
Sisi was a peculiar mix of a spirit of revolt and a melancholy that
would change when least expected to impishness and open enjoyment.
At times her mood would be deeply serious, critical, sarcastic and
cynical, and then suddenly she would become childlike. Her love for her
little daughter absorbed her utterly and with her she became a child
again.
Once, a traveling showman appeared with a tame bear, which
delighted little Valerie immensely, and Sisi still more so. When it had
danced for her, she threw an apple into the lake and the bear jumped in
after it, splashing about happily in the water and swimming around like
any human being. When a steamer approach, the bear took fright, uttered
a loud roar, and made for the shore in a series of mighty bounds.
It was so tame that it would allow itself be stroked and ate out of their
hands. Sisi would have liked to keep it and take it back to Austria, and
gently hinted in a letter to Franz Josef that the price of it would be seven
hundred gulden.
Guitar and zither-players and performers on the mouth-organ were
also attracted to Garatshausen, until the Duchess said to her daughter,

146
“My dear Sisi, you are getting exactly like your father with your passion
for good-for-nothings.”
Pressure of affairs made it impossible for Franz Josef to come to
Garatshausen and he begged Sisi to return to Ischl soon. She consented,
adding as a proviso, “As I am prepared to do your will and make
sacrifices, I hope you will do the same for me.”
When the Emperor asked how matters stood with regard to Ludwig
II, she replied, “Thank God, we neither see nor hear anything of the King
of Bavaria. He has always got the fidgets and is perpetually on the
move.”
She sighed as she made up her mind to return to Austria and Ischl.
“Except for you and my horses,” she complained to her friend Ida, “I
meet with nothing but unpleasantness wherever I go.”

The chief topic of conversation at Court at this time was the Emperor’s
imminent journey to Suez for the opening of the Suez Canal. This was
fixed for November 16, 1869, and it was announced that the Empress
Eugénie would represent her husband at the ceremony. For a moment
there was a question as to whether Sisi would accompany the Emperor,
but she shrank back from the inevitable festivities; besides which, she
did not particularly like the Empress Eugénie. Franz Josef thought it
better, too, for one of them to remain behind with the children, so it was
finally decided that he should travel alone.
On October 26, 1869, he took leave of the Empress at Gödöllö. At the
last moment she regretted that he was going without her, and wrote to
him that she thought of nothing all day but of him and the beautiful
journey that lay before him. She was so anxious about him that she
persuaded him to take a doctor with him. On that same day, Franz Josef
wrote to her saying that he was being “parted from everything he loved
on earth.”
From such small indications as these the Archduchess Sophie
intimated that the Emperor and Empress were on excellent terms, and for
this she gave Sisi full credit. She treated her with great consideration,
and it was now the Empress who, by her conduct toward her mother-in-
law, put herself in the wrong.
The Emperor’s first stopping-place was Constantinople, where he
paid a visit to the Sultan Abdul Aziz, finding him “the most charming
host imaginable.” He sent the Empress long descriptive letters every day

147
and she was very envious when she read his account of the Sultan’s
stables.
“You would have begun with them, I feel sure,” he wrote, and
proceeded to describe the magnificent gray, the Sultan’s favorite horse, a
thirty-year-old gray which he still rode, the remaining eight hundred
royal horses, and so on.
She laughed at his account of the Sultan’s little son, who had a
hundred and fifty horses of his own, but was so vicious and spoiled that
he “thrashes the Sultan’s aides-de-camp with a horse whip.”
When Sisi read these descriptions and the accounts of the beautiful
mild weather in the south, she felt a “terrible longing” for a milder
climate as winter was now setting in. She, too, wrote long letters to the
Emperor almost daily and hoped this would convince him that she was
“thinking enough about him, although unable to express this in an
amusing way.”
Andrássy, who accompanied the Emperor, also wrote regularly to Ida
Ferenczy, and therefore indirectly to the Empress.
From Constantinople, Franz Josef proceeded to Jaffa, and from there
to the Holy Places. The Sultan had provided a brilliant escort. Hundreds
of Turkish soldiers, mounted on camels, and Bedouins, on magnificent
grays, awaited him in a camp where the tents were embroidered with silk
and gold.
Then the whole caravan set out for Jerusalem. On reaching the River
Jordan, the Emperor had a number of bottles filled with water to take
home, as it was an ancient custom to baptize the children of the Imperial
family in the water of the Jordan. Andrássy bathed in the river as he had
heard that whoever did so would be able to work miracles, and as he
remarked, “That may be very useful to my country.”
The Emperor sent his wife all manner of souvenirs of the Holy
Places, such as a metal bottle of Jordan water taken from the spot where
Christ was baptized by St. John the Baptist, or a box made of stone taken
from the Holy Sepulcher.
From Jaffa, the Emperor continued his journey to Suez, where for the
first time he found letters from the Empress telling him about her new
dog Shadow.
“I envy the Sultan his wild animals,” she wrote, “but I would rather
have a Black servant. Perhaps you could bring me one as a surprise, for
which I kiss you over and over-again in anticipation … So you are

148
happily reunited with your beloved Empress Eugénie. It makes me very
jealous, too, to think that you are now playing the charmer for her benefit
while I sit here all alone and cannot even take my revenge … I am lazier
than ever and dread the very thought of having to do anything. But I
would like to go to Constantinople all the same …”
Franz Josef was able to reassure her. The Empress of France, he
reported, had lost most of her beauty and seemed to him to have grown
very stout.
He described an enormous ball in the Khedive’s palace, to which all
the guests assembled for the opening of the Canal, whoever they were,
were invited. Around a thousand people were present, so that the crush
was indescribable, and even the Emperor Franz Josef, escorting the
Empress Eugénie, who was dressed in bright red and wearing a crown,
had great difficulty in making his way through the throng.
The arrangements were quite unworthy of the grandiose setting and
they had to wait an eternity for supper.
“There was only one thought on all our minds,” he wrote to his wife.
“How to escape, and the Empress and I did all we could to speed up the
supper. We knew we would have to wait for it as the most magnificent
preparations had been made, with the menu comprising more than thirty
dishes.”
This was quite enough to cure Sisi of her envy. She liked traveling
well enough, but if it had to be paid for like this, she would rather do
without it.

Meanwhile, news had been received that Queen Marie of the Two
Sicilies was expecting her child sometime during the month of
December. Sisi, therefore, set out for Rome, arranging to break her
journey at Miramar so as to meet her husband there on his return from
the East.
She arrived in Rome on the eve of the opening of the Vatican Council
and found the city full of dignitaries of the Church assembled from all
parts of the world. She stayed at the Palazzo Farnase as the guest of the
King of the Two Sicilies, who, she said, “wore himself out with the effort
of being amiable.”
The Empress was present at the opening of the Council on December
8, 1869, watching the proceedings from the box reserved for sovereigns.
The impression it made on her was that of “an ocean of miters.” The

149
religious ceremonies lasted for seven hours, but one was more than
enough for Sisi.
The next day she was received in audience by the Pope in the Vatican.
He was most amiable and talkative, but she understood very little of
what he said as he spoke only Italian, and she wrote to the Emperor that
“all the shuffling around on one’s knees” struck her as “really comical.”
On the twelfth, Pius IX returned her visit at the Palazzo Farnese.
“This again,” she reported to Franz Josef, “was accompanied by
awful ceremonies. The whole Household was assembled and we waited
on our knees at the foot of the staircase … As the conversation was in
Italian, there was no need for me to exert myself. When he left, there was
a repetition of the same ceremonial. By the steps, the Pope pulled a
scarlet cap down over his ears and put on an ermine-trimmed scarlet
cloak which reminded me of the Empress Karoline Augusta.”
Sisi took advantage of her strict anonymity to avoid, as best she
could, members of any royal families, of the diplomatic corps, and
similar. On the other hand, under the guidance of Baron Visconti, she
visited all the sights of Rome with great interest.
On December 24, the expected event occurred and Queen Marie gave
birth to a little daughter on Christmas Day, which was also her own
birthday. Sisi showed the most touching concern for her sister and was
with her night and day, with the result that she caught a cough from
walking around the cold palazzo with its mosaic floors in her flimsy
night clothes. She attempted to cure it by drinking asses’s milk but the
effective cure came when the Roman nobility invited her to take part in a
great hunt in the Campagna, where she thoroughly enjoyed herself riding
with the Princes Doria, Odescalchi, Piano etc., all of whom admired this
enchanting horsewoman.
Sisi, too, was full of enthusiasm, although she found the going far less
easy than in Hungary. Her great favorite was Count Malatesta, who had
been attached to her suite. All Franz Josef’s fears for her safety proved
groundless and not a single misadventure occurred while she was in
Rome.
From Rome, Sisi traveled straight to Buda, which again caused great
indignation in the Court in Vienna. There had already been some ill-
feeling at her having raised the salary of her reader Ida Ferenczy from
eighteen hundred to three thousand gulden, plus an allowance for
traveling expenses, as Ida was regarded as Andrássy’s instrument, and

150
Valerie, it was said, was being brought up as the “daughter of the
Hungarian King.” Indeed, Sisi wrote to her mother that the dear little two
year old spoke Hungarian better than any language so far, and it was
already possible to understand what she wanted to say.

June found the Empress back at Ischl. But her peaceful country life,
interrupted only by such innocent amusements as performances by
trained dogs, a clever horse and so on, was abruptly broken by the news
of the critical breakdown in the relationship between Prussia and France.
This meant that Franz Josef could not come to Ischl.
“It would be too sad,” wrote the Empress to him, “if war were to
break out again.”
But he assured her that this would not be as bad as she supposed as it
would be a very good thing if Prussia’s arrogance could be tamed by
Napoléon III, and this favorable opportunity had now arrived.
Sisi’s point of view now changed. She had been to some extent
affected by the hostility to Prussia prevailing at the Court of Vienna since
1866, and now she, like Franz Josef, looked forward to a victory by the
French in the impending war.
The Empress had wanted to visit her family in Bavaria, but this was
now impossible. She would not stop at Ischl in any case, as this would
have meant spending the whole summer with her mother-in-law, and
that, as she wrote to the Emperor, she simply could not endure. At such a
time, moreover, she did not want to be too far from the railways and all
means of receiving news, so it was decided that she should stay at the
village of Neuberg on the Schneealp, to the north of Mürzzuschlag,
where the Emperor could reach her within five hours. She also shared
her mother’s fears for her brothers Ludwig and Karl Theodor who were
going to the war, and she was curious to know whether they now
sympathized with Prussia.
The news of the skirmish at Saarbrücken was at once telegraphed to
her by the Emperor as a great French victory.
“The French have at least made a good beginning,” she replied. “Is
that place of any great importance? I am curious to know how the
Prussians will explain this outcome …”
A few days later, she wrote, “If this sort of thing goes on, the
Prussians will soon be back in Berlin again. I am already enjoying the

151
prospect of hearing from your own lips what you think of it all. So do
come very soon.”
But soon news arrived in rapid succession of German victories at
Weissenburg, Wörth, Spichern and Mars la Tour. The Court in Vienna
had seriously considered joining the war on the side of the French
Emperor at the right moment, but there was now a cruel disillusionment
and the news of the successive victories by Prussia gave reason to fear
that Prussia might next turn on Austria and tear her to pieces.
“We may possibly vegetate for a year or two more before our turn
comes,” wrote Sisi to her husband. “What do you think?”
The Archduchess Sophie was naturally the person most deeply
affected at seeing all her hopes shattered as she approached the end of
her life. Additionally, the denunciation of the Concordat with Rome, that
she had played a part in concluding, was now being considered.
In melancholy mood, she complained to the young Crown Prince of
the heavy burdens she had to bear.
“I am delighted that the Bavarians have distinguished themselves to
the extent they have,” she wrote to him, “but as one of their blood, I can
only regret deeply that this did not happen in the year '66, and that they
are now fighting and shedding their blood like true German Michels for
the utter ruin of their independence and their autonomous existence.”
But worse was still to come. On September 1, Sedan capitulated and
the Napoléon III surrendered his sword to the King of Prussia. On the
fourth, the Republic was proclaimed in Paris and the Princess Eugénie
had to make a perilous escape from France.
In writing to his mother, the Emperor Franz Josef described the
catastrophe as a terrible one and the rejoicing of the King of Prussia,
“with his arrogance, vanity and hypocrisy,” as “shameless.”
As for Sisi, “the news of the Republic,” she wrote to the Emperor,
“did not surprise me much. I only wonder that they did not do it a long
time ago. When you come here, I hope you will give me all the details
about the Empress’s flight. That interests me greatly.”
The Archduchess Sophie was wounded to the core by the terrible war
and its sad consequences, and she told the Crown Prince how deeply she
sympathized with Louis Napoléon and his wife. The result of the war of
1866 had made such an indelible impression upon her that she quite
forgot the wrongs inflicted on Austria by Napoléon III in 1859, and on
herself personally in the affair of Maximilian of Mexico. But in addition

152
to everything else, the battle of Königgrätz had destroyed her influence
over the Emperor Franz Josef and the government of Austria and
Hungary, and even in her declining years this ambitious woman could
not reconcile herself with this.

But events were to deal the Bavarian family yet another blow. On
September 20, the “venti Settembre” known by every Italian, the troops
of the Kingdom of United Italy entered Rome, and the King and Queen
of the Two Sicilies, who had been hostile to the Italian Kingdom, were
forced to flee in a hurry from the Eternal City. From this time on, they
were to lead the lives of wandering exiles, always cherishing vague
hopes that they might one day recover their Neapolitan throne.
Sisi, who was secretly proud of the distinguished part played by her
native country in the war, now believed that peace would be speedily
concluded, enabling her to go quietly to Meran with her children. But
instead of being quiet, her journey by way of Salzburg, Kufstein and
Innsbruck, which she had never visited before, developed into a
triumphal progress. Every evening, bonfires blazed on the hills. At the
railway station in Innsbruck, she was given a brilliant reception, in the
middle of which she caught sight of a large dog. Immediately – so the
Princess Gisela reported to the Crown Prince – she had eyes only for the
man who was holding its leash. She made a sign to him and the next day
the dog was hers.
In Meran she stayed at the Villa Trauttmansdorff, where there was an
array of ancient armor and the walls were hung with family portraits.
Gisela, who was now fourteen, wrote to her brother Rudolf that it was a
good place in which to play at being ghosts.

Soon the King and Queen of the Two Sicilies and the Duke and Duchess
of Alençon arrived in Meran on a visit to the Empress. She was devoted
to all her sisters, especially the Queen of the Two Sicilies, who greatly
resembled her. Indeed, the Empress’s sisters seemed to take pains to
emphasize their resemblance to her, whether in their figures and their
habits, or in the the veils, hair styles and dresses that they wore. This was
also true of the Duchess of Alençon, although she was considerably
smaller than Sisi. So far did the sisters carry this imitation of the
Empress that the Queen of the Two Sicilies always had a dog of the same
breed and size as Sisi’s, and with a similar collar.

153
 The King of the Two Sicilies looked on with a tolerant smile. He
accepted his fate in a matter-of-fact way, remarking, “for me kingship is
a thing of the past.” As for Sisi, having no horses with her at Meran, she
went for long walks conducted at a rapid pace which, to the horror of her
ladies-in-waiting, often lasted for four or five hours.

One result of the campaign in France had been an entire reversal of

Austrian policy toward Prussia. It was now clearly impossible to cherish
any thoughts of revenge for the events of 1866, even in secret, and
Kaiser Wilhelm’s visit to Ischl on August 11, 1871, was proof that Franz
Josef and his Minister of Foreign Affairs had come to terms with this
altered state of affairs.
The young Crown Prince, who was also present on this occasion, was
now gradually beginning to play his part in everything. His chief interest
was in the natural sciences and he pitied “those fellows” who could take
no pleasure in them. He was especially fond of observing animals and
their habits. But whereas his mother loved them dearly, and always had
them around her, never treating them with anything other than kindness,
Rudolf, although only twelve, was already shooting every creeping or
flying thing in sight. His tutors did nothing to restrain him as they
thought that, in view of the Emperor’s passion for shooting, his son must
learn to be a good shot as soon as possible. But all this killing of animals
while still a child undoubtedly had the effect of making him callous in
later life. There are drawings of his dating from between the years of
1867 and 1871, in which he represents himself shooting at a bird in a
tree, a family of hares, or a covey of partridges, and in every case the
blood is represented by a great splash of red. Sisi could do nothing about
this as she had been deprived of any opportunity to influence her son.
In the middle of March, the Empress left Meran and went for five
days to Buda. She was met at the station by the Archduchess Klothilde –
the wife of the Archduke Josef – who was attended by the Countess
Marie Festetics. In reply to Sisi’s inquiry, the Archduchess said that the
Countess was her new lady-in-waiting who had been recommended to
her by Deák and Andrássy. Recognizing her to be an exceptionally clever
and keen-witted woman devoted to the cause of Hungary, they wanted to
introduce her to the Court in order to have a trustworthy friend and
patriotic ally there.
The Countess fell under the Empress’s spell at once.

154
 “She is the most beautiful creature I have ever seen,” she noted that
same day in her carefully kept diary, “full of regal dignity, and yet
wondrously winning, with such a soft voice. Her eyes are too delightful.”
The Empress had a long and friendly talk with her, mostly about their
mutual friends Deák and Andrássy. On March 19, there was a great
dinner at the Archduchess’s at which Sisi appeared in a low-necked
purple dress with her hair hanging down below her waist. The Countess
noted in her dairy that there was something suggestive of a lily in her
appearance, and that she looked sometimes like a girl and sometimes like
a woman. She was astonished when, on exchanging a few words with her
cousin Count Gustav Bellegarde, who shared the views of the
Archduchess Sophie, she heard him make some rather disagreeable
remarks about the Empress. And when she begged him not to spoil her
pleasure, he only laughed.
The Countess went away with some very negative impressions of
courtiers as she was not used to the atmosphere at Courts. She had been
brought up in the country and now, in her thirty-second year, looked with
critical eyes at all that went on around her.
“There are many clever people there,” she noted in her diary, “among
them Andrássy, Ёotvös and my old Deák. Then there are pleasant people,
then merely kind people, then elegant people, as well as upstarts, idlers
and gossips, beautiful amiable women, relatives, male and female
cousins. The sum of all these, together with stupid and pushy people, is
called ‘the great world’.”
Having met the observational Countess twice during her stay in
Budapest and taken a great fancy to her, the Empress talked to Andrássy
about her. And so it came about that, when in July one of her ladies-in-
waiting, the Princess Helene of Taxis, resigned her position due to an
upcoming marriage, Sisi begged that the Countess might be appointed in
her place. Marie Festetics felt some misgivings, but on July 4, 1871,
Count Andrássy called on her and urged her to accept.
“You must go,” he said. “There is no room for hesitation. It is your
duty to make this sacrifice for your country. A person whom God has
endowed with plentiful intelligence ought to show gratitude for it, and
the Queen stands in need of someone faithful.”
“But does she deserve it?” asked the Countess, whereupon Andrássy
looked at her with such an expression of astonishment that she blushed.
“What a question to ask!” he replied in a very stern voice.

155
 She now told him, with some reluctance, what she had heard and
especially what Bellegarde had said, whereupon Andrássy replied, “You
regard me as a friend, do you not? Well I advise you to accept
unconditionally. The Queen is good, clever and pure. They abuse her
because she loves our country and that they will never forgive her for.
For that same reason, they will persecute you, too, but that is of no
account. In this way you will be able to serve both the Queen and your
country, and it is your duty to accept. Deák has written to me to the same
effect. Besides, such an offer cannot possibly be rejected. It is not done.”
Thus it was that Marie Festetics came to be with the Empress.
Sisi spent the months of October and November at Meran with
Valerie, the Crown Prince Rudolf being unable to join them. In place of
her lady-in-waiting Lily Hunyady, who had also married, she took the
Countess Ludwiga Shaffgotsch, who seemed pretty and congenial,
although very small.
“The most beautiful things about her,” wrote Sisi to the Emperor, “are
her eyes and a long black moustache.”
The new lady-in-waiting at once gained a foretaste of what the
Empress meant by “going for a walk” and returned home half dead from
one that Sisi had called “a short stroll.”
She smiled at the Empress’s excessive fears for Valerie’s health. The
slightest nosebleed threw Sisi into an extremely agitated state, and
whenever she heard of illness anywhere – smallpox, scarlet fever and so
on – she trembled for fear of infection. Toward the end November, a few
cases of scarlet fever were reported from Vienna, so when the Emperor
proposed to visit Meran, Sisi was terribly alarmed in case someone in his
suite might possibly be infected.
“We live so very close together here,” she wrote to her husband on
the twenty-ninth. “Just think what might happen if illness were brought
into the house … It is terribly hard for me to ask you not to come, but it
would certainly not be a useless precaution.”
So the Emperor stayed away. He had already asked what the Empress
would like for her birthday which was always celebrated with especial
pomp because it fell on Christmas Day.
The answer he received was an astonishing one.
“Since you ask what would give me pleasure,” she wrote on
fourteenth, “I beg for either a young royal tiger (Zoological Gardens in

156
Berlin, three cubs) or a locket. What I should like best of all would be a
fully-equipped lunatic asylum. So now you have enough choices.”
This latter request was not intended as a joke, but was suggested quite
seriously, as the Empress had long interested herself in everything to do
with the unhappy fate of the insane. Arrangements for the care of
lunatics in Vienna were very bad and Sisi had made repeated efforts to
remedy this state of affairs. This would be very costly, but she never
relaxed her efforts and seized this opportunity to call the matter once
again to the Emperor’s attention in this very original fashion.
Meanwhile, during the Empress’s absence, one of her most heartfelt
wishes had been fulfilled, as on November 9, Andrássy replaced Beust at
the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. This was inevitable in view of the
outcome of the war of 1870-71 as all thought of revenge for Königgratz
had now been abandoned, while a reconciliation with the new Germany
was all the more essential owing to the continuing strained relationship
with Russia.
The Empress herself was the first to recognize this.
In a letter dated from Vienna on August 14, 1867, and addressed to
Bismarck, the Prussian Ambassador, Freiherr von Werther, had
characterized Andrássy as intelligent and energetic, but had added that,
as a statesman, he held the most amateurish views about everything
outside the borders of Hungary. This may be taken as representing the
general opinion of the new Minister for Foreign Affairs held by the
foreign diplomats accredited to the Court of Vienna. So far as Russia was
concerned, his appointment was naturally regarded as an unfriendly act,
as Andrássy had been a Hungarian rebel in 1848 and cursed the Russian
intervention, so that the Empire of the Tsars was bound to feel some
mistrust when he was charged with the conduct of the Dual Monarchy’s
foreign policy. For Sisi it was a personal triumph, while Vienna received
the news of the appointment with mixed feelings. It looked like a fresh
step toward the “Hungarian alienation” of the Monarchy that Sisi was
accused of.
With the exception of the Countess Schaffgotsch, the only Austrian
who now remained in the immediate entourage of the Empress was the
newly-appointed Mistress of the Household, the Countess Marie von
Goëss, née Countess Welsersheimb, an amiable, sensible and somewhat
retiring elderly lady of great tact, with an even-tempered disposition,

157
whom Sisi called upon less than she did the ladies-in-waiting. All the
rest were Hungarians.
The Countess Marie Festetics took up her duties on December 21.
The Empress received her, standing in the middle of the room, wearing a
blue dress and with a great hound at her side, greeting her with the
words, “Well, I think we shall get used to each other.”
Then she made some little jokes and talked about anything and
everything, remarking in the course of their conversation, “Andrássy told
me that you are straightforward and truthful. Please be so with me too. If
you want to say anything to me, say it honestly and frankly. If you want
to know anything, ask me and not anyone else. When they abuse me,
which is a habit of this house, do not believe them. Make friends with
nobody for the present. You can trust Ida implicitly. She is not a Court
lady and I do not want her to become intimate with them. They will only
seek out her friendship out of curiosity. In your case it is different. I
know your character from Andrássy. We leave on December 27 and I
shall take you with me.”
The Empress spoke clearly and decisively. Her expression was now
sad, now arch, now witty, now serious. Marie Festetics left the room with
her mind in a whirl. What would life be like with this fascinating woman
who was an Empress to boot?

158
Chapter 9

The Empress’s Intimate Life (1872-1875)

In Countess Festetics the Empress had found not only a lady-in-waiting,

but an extremely intelligent companion.
In the winter of 1872, the Countess accompanied Sisi and
Archduchess Valerie to Meran, and living in such immediate contact
with her mistress, she was able to study her character at close quarters.
On the very first morning she was summoned to attend Sisi while her
hair was being dressed. The Empress’s hairdresser, Angerer, had recently
married, but not wishing to part with her, the Empress had promoted her
husband, a clerk named Feifalik, to be her own secretary.
Frau Feifalik was of very humble origin, her mother having been a
midwife, but she had acquired such skill as a theatrical hairdresser that
the Empress found her indispensable, as the care of such luxuriant
masses of magnificent hair was no easy task. The Empress grieved over
the loss of a single hair, so Frau Feifalik invented an ingenious device by
which the hairs left in the comb were drawn out by an adhesive
substance that she kept hidden under her apron so that she was able to
show her mistress a perfectly empty comb. Even the washing of this
mass of hair was a serious undertaking that occupied the greater part of a
day. Conscious of being indispensable, the hairdresser was apt to take
liberties and had a thousand pretensions, which the Viennese call
“Faxen.” She had always borne the ladies-in-waiting a grudge for their
superior rank and regarded this new one with suspicion.
For her part, the Countess Festetics believed that she was regarded as
an interloper and a spy of Andrássy’s, and from the first this hardly
helped to build convivial relationships between her and the rest of the
Empress’s entourage. Their Hungarian nationality was, naturally, a bond
between her, Nopcsa and Ida Ferenczy, but, even in their case, the mutual
respect between them left much to be desired. The two Hungarian
women soon came to love the Empress but were both rather envious of
each other’s relationship with her. Efforts were also made to set them
against each other, and both received mean anonymous letters, which,
although doubtless consigned to the garbage, could hardly fail to leave a
sting behind.

159
When the Empress returned to Vienna, Marie Festetics was able to obtain
a closer insight into the relationships that existed between members of
the Imperial family. Every Friday, the Archduchess Sophie gave a large
dinner party, and at one of these, on January 21, 1872, the new ladies-in-
waiting were presented to her. The Countess Festetics was impressed by
the extreme nobility of the Archduchess’s bearing, which was both
kindly and imposing, but noticed that, although she herself was received
with the barest inclination of the head, the Austrian Countess
Schaffgotsch was honored with a long and friendly conversation, while
the Archduke Ludwig Viktor did not even trouble to have himself
introduced to her.
After dinner, the Empress asked her whether she had felt hurt. “No,
Your Majesty,” she replied, “I was more annoyed.”
“One has to get used to that sort of thing,” replied the Empress.
“Anyone attached to me is inevitably persecuted. I am quite surprised
that the Archduke did not at once take your education in hand as he likes
to teach everybody manners except himself.”
The Archduke Wilhelm’s attitude was quite different.
“Don't let yourself be influenced by all the gossip,” he said kindly.
“Be true to the Empress. She is good and noble.”
The antagonism toward Hungary in the Emperor’s military
chancellery was still as relentless as in Count Grünne’s day. The anti-
Hungarian Count Bellegarde, a handsome and intelligent man with the
air of a grand seigneur, had a subtle knack of making people look
ridiculous with a mere word or two, which amused the Emperor and
therefore influenced him. His little sarcasms were frequently aimed at
Andrássy, and Franz Josef listened to them without protest and with a
slight smile. But this attitude naturally led to sharp differences of opinion
with the Empress.
Meanwhile, Miss Throckmorton, the English governess, had
developed into a regular scandalmonger. On January 23, a telegram from
Meran announced that Valerie, who had been left behind there, was a
little unwell. This threw the Empress into a terrible state of anxiety, and
as soon as the two Court balls were over, she and the Emperor hurried to
Meran. Miss Throckmorton, who was with the little Archduchess, used
this as an opportunity to spy upon them, spreading all sorts of stories
about how they had quarreled, about how the Empress had locked her

160
husband out of her room, and so on. This led to a storm when Countess
Festetics rounded on the Englishwoman.

After the Emperor left, the Countess took long walks and drives with her
mistress and got to know her more thoroughly, coming to the conclusion
that Sisi was very decided, thoughtful and highly original, but somewhat
embittered in her views. She noted how, whenever possible, the Empress
avoided those with whom her rank forced her to come in contact and
preferred solitude or the companionship of some intimate who was
sympathetic to her.
“Are you not surprised,” asked the Empress suddenly one day, “at my
living like a hermit?”
“I am indeed, Your Majesty as you are still so young.”
“Yes, I am,” replied the Empress, “but I have no choice but to live
like this. I have been so persecuted, misjudged and slandered, so hurt and
wounded in the great world. God looks into my soul. I have never done
anything that was evil. And I thought to myself that I would seek
associations with those who would leave me in peace and bring me
pleasure without upsetting me. I have withdrawn into myself and turned
to nature as the forest does not hurt one. It has been hard, of course, to be
alone in life, but in the long run, one grows used to anything and now I
enjoy it. Nature is far more gratifying than men.”
A little while later, the Countess accompanied the Empress on an
excursion to the “Eremit” [Hermit], one of the most beautiful and wildly
romantic walks around Meran. Suddenly Sisi asked her whether she
would like to be a hermit.
“Oh no!” she replied.
“But peace is so precious,” said the Empress, “and one can only strive
for and win it far from the world, far from mankind. Of course that leads
to musing and brooding.”
She went on to talk about the days when she was a girl. Her tone was
sad, but suddenly some sparkly observation would break through the
sadness, revealing a fascinatingly dry sense of humor. It was remarkable
how different she was from most other people in almost every way. It
was her eyes that laughed first, the mouth only afterwards. And her eyes
had a radiance that went straight to the heart of those she was looking at.
She was entirely at the mercy of her sympathies and antipathies. She was

161
never ordinary, and everything about her revealed that she put great
thought into things.
“It is a pity,” noted Marie Festetics, “that she fritters away her whole
time on what are essentially idle fancies and feels compelled to do
simply nothing. She has tendency to intellectual laziness and at the same
time a craving for freedom that makes any restraint oppressive to her.
When she is dining with a small party, she is charming, provided that no
one present is unsympathetic to her. But if there is, she creates a frosty
atmosphere around her.”
After spending about a week in Meran, the Empress left for Budapest,
where the rapturous reception given her by an enormous crowd was
sufficient proof of her popularity in Hungary. And a surprise awaited her
at the Royal Palace. The Archduchess Gisela, although barely sixteen,
had become engaged to Prince Leopold of Bavaria, the second son of
Prince Luitpold, later the Prince Regent.
The marriage was open to certain objections. It seemed to the
Empress “much too soon,” and the degree of consanguinity was very
close, Prince Leopold’s mother being an Austrian Archduchess. But the
field of choice was limited as the bridegroom had to be a Catholic and of
royal blood. So, “since there are so few Catholic Princes,” as the
Emperor Franz Josef wrote to his mother on April 7, “we had to try and
secure the only one to whom we could give Gisela with confidence.”
Sisi was less upset about this than might have been expected, as
Gisela had been estranged from her by the Archduchess Sophie from her
earliest childhood and had never meant as much to her as little Valerie.
But although Gisela was unusually tall and well-developed for her age,
the Empress could not quite reconcile herself to the fact that the child of
yesterday was now engaged to be married, and decided that the marriage
must be postponed for at least a year, whereupon spiteful tongues
commented that she was marrying off the child in a hurry because she
did not want to be seen going around next to a grownup daughter.
At the end of April, Sisi returned to Meran, where she heard that, as
the result of a severe chill contracted on May 10, the Archduchess
Sophie had been suffering from “nervous symptoms,” such as a tendency
to somnolence and a trembling of the hands and feet. The Empress was
summoned to Vienna, where she arrived on the sixteenth. The
Archduchess grew worse and worse, but her mind remained perfectly

162
clear and she took an affectionate farewell of every member of the
Imperial family.
On the evening of the twenty-sixth, she seemed better, and Sisi, who
had been at her bedside until half-past eleven at night with the other
members of the family, went home to the Hofburg to snatch a brief rest.
She had hardly arrived there when a footman rushed in with the news
that Her Imperial Highness was dying and His Majesty begged her to
come at once.
The coachman drove to Schönbrunn as fast as he could go. Sisi was
terribly upset, as she was in mortal fear that the Archduchess might die
before she reached her bedside, when it was bound to be said that her
absence was intentional. When at last she reached Schönbrunn, she asked
breathlessly whether Her Imperial Highness was still alive and was
relieved to hear that she was.
The whole Court was assembled – the Imperial family, the Ministers
of the Imperial Household, and the members of the Household – but the
Archduchess took a long time to die. The Countess Festetics, who was
waiting in a corner, astutely remarked that death is not a Court ceremony
and that great people should be allowed to pass on to the world beyond
in peace and in the same holy calm as beggars. The Empress agreed with
her, saying that she felt that this stiff formality would inevitable stifle all
natural feeling.
The Archduchess survived the night and was still alive at seven
o’clock the next morning. Hours went by, the Archdukes left her sick
room, and a voice was heard announcing that Their Imperial Highnesses
were going to dinner. But Sisi, “the Heartless” as she was called,
remained seated in the death chamber although she hadn’t eaten for ten
hours. The Emperor only left his mother’s bedside for a brief moment
but the Empress stayed there all the time until, at a quarter-to-three in the
afternoon, death put an end to the Archduchess Sophie’s suffering.
As usual, Sisi showed herself touchingly sweet and good in this hour
of crisis. In the presence of death, all hostility was forgotten and faded
away. She thought only of the more recent years, during which the
Archduchess’s attitude toward her had entirely changed, and she
admitted to herself that she, too, was not exempt from blame for the
misunderstandings that had caused a lifelong estrangement between her
mother-in-law and herself. But those circles in Vienna that had never

163
been able to understand and appreciate Sisi, remarked, “Our Empress is
now lost and buried.”
Soon after the funeral, the Empress left Schönbrunn for Ischl, where
she was to spend the summer. Even her somber mourning attire could not
cast a shadow over her glorious figure and her enchanting face, and
every time Marie Festetics went for a walk with her she became more
enraptured.
“It is a joy to be with her and even to follow her,” she wrote. “It is
enough to gaze upon her. She is the very incarnation of the word
‘charm.’ Sometimes I think of her as a lily, then again as a swan, a fairy
or an elf. And then after all I think, ‘No! She is a queen! From the crown
of her head to the sole of her foot, a queenly woman! Fine and noble in
all things.’ And then again all the gossip comes into my head and I think
there must be a great deal of envy behind it, as, to sum it all up, she is
bewitchingly lovely and full of charm. But I am struck more and more by
the absence of any pleasure in living that I feel in her. There is an
atmosphere of calm about her that is very striking in one so young! Her
voice is generally tranquil and soft, only rarely excited. Now and then,
when she speaks of the merciless way in which she has been treated,
there is a slight quiver in it. How can anyone hurt a person looking like
her?”
The Countess proceeded to give an example of this treatment.
“In order to annoy me,” the Empress confided to me one day, “the
Archduke Ludwig faithfully passes on to me all the lies people tell about
me. He hates me, of course, and that is his way of trying to hurt me. Now
I never see him alone and will not receive him. He has gossiped so much
and told such lies that he has really spoiled my life. He abuses
everybody, and me too. He says odious things and then pretends that it
was I who said them. But I will not see him now, so I live in peace.”
The Empress would talk like this in her frequent moods of depression
and melancholy, but fundamentally her disposition was a cheerful one
and her keen sense of the ridiculous often made her almost incapable of
repressing the paroxysms of helpless laughter with which she was
overcome even on the most solemn and ceremonious of occasions.
One evening at dinner, for instance, Prince Lobkowitz, one of the
Emperor's aides-dc-camp, was seated opposite her, fidgeting negligently
with a toothpick, when as ill-luck would have it, it flew out of his hand
and across the table, landing in the Empress’s soup. At first she tried to

164
ignore what had happened, but it was too much for her and she shook
with laughter until the tears streamed down her face. The Emperor turned
and asked what she was laughing at as he would like to share in the joke.
The unhappy aide-de-camp sat looking utterly crushed, appealing with
his eyes toward the Empress until she felt so sorry for him that she
replied with a mischievous smile, “Oh, something just occurred to me,”
which was a pun because in German the phrase she used was “Es ist mir
etwas eingefallen,” which can be literally translated as, “Something just
fell in on me.”
It did her good, said the Countess Festetics, to see the Empress laugh
so heartily, just as she did when she took her children on excursions to
the countryside around Ischl. The Crown Prince, a nice, attractive boy
with great soft, brown eyes, laughed and tittered along with his mother
and thoroughly enjoyed life, incredibly precocious and nervous as he
was for a lad of only fourteen years old. Sisi had succeeded in having
him taught Magyar by Bishop Hiazynth von Rónay who had taken part
in the rebellion of 1848 as an army chaplain on the Hungarian side and
been forced, like Andrássy, to go into exile in London. The Bishop was
astonished at the young Crown Prince’s ultra-liberal ideas, which,
although crude and immature, were startling enough, as he put them
down in an essay written in December 1872, for his tutor, Von Latour. He
explained, for instance, that people are all naturally noble, and that from
time immemorial, aristocrats and priests had worked hand-in-hand to
keep them stupid in order to share ruling over them; and that the “best
society,” as it styles itself, is but a festering abscess on the body of the
state. And so on.
There was speculation at Court as to where the young Crown Prince
could have picked up such ideas as these, and it was thought that they
might be traced to certain remarks of Sisi’s that the child had
misunderstood and exaggerated. But the Crown Prince was so rarely
anywhere near his mother, and so fully occupied all day under the
superintendence of excellent tutors, that his could hardly be ascribed to
Sisi’s influence alone. His strange tendencies were inherent and were
possibly due to the fact that his parents were too closely related. Yet the
Archduchess Gisela, on the other hand, had developed into quite a
normal, simple, quiet and sensible woman.
Little Valerie was rather a shy, nervous child who shrank from contact
with anybody and this made her mother all the more devoted to her. If

165
the child so much as went for a walk, there was a solemn leave-taking,
and when she returned the Empress asked over and over again whether
anything had happened to her as she never ceased to dread some accident
to her remarkable little girl whose shy, intelligent expression was
considered disagreeable by those who did not know her.

In the middle of September, the Empress went to Possenhofen where she

found her sisters, Queen Marie of the Two Sicilies and the Princess
Helene Thurn und Taxis, who had brought with them four children. The
Princess Helene, noted the Countess Festetics, had grown very stout,
neglected to dress herself properly, and looked rather like a caricature of
Sisi. Her children were “enchanting,” but a little too much in awe of their
mother. The fourth sister Mathilde, Countess of Trani, had a most
beautiful figure, but none of Sisi’s winning ways, and rather resembled a
feeble copy of her. Of the brothers, Duke Karl was the most
distinguished, although not handsome. The youngest, Prince Mapperl,
was strikingly handsome, but less intelligent. They were all as shy as Sisi
and her little daughter Valerie, which was evidently a hereditary trait.
They were a very united family, and the Countess further noted that
Sisi’s old home was simple but well run, neat and orderly without
ostentation, and with good and wholesome, if somewhat old-fashioned,
food, but no trace of the “beggarly” domestic arrangements about which
ill-meaning snipers in Vienna spread malicious tales.

The most interesting news to be heard at Possenhofen was about the

King. He was still behaving most strangely and did his best to avoid the
capital. Only when Sisi was there did he emerge from his gorgeous
retreats and nothing would restrain him from coming to see her.
On September 21, 1872, he announced his intention of paying a visit
to Possenhofen, at the same time intimating that no one must be present
but Sisi. The Empress gave orders, however, that he was to be received
on his arrival by Baron Nopcsa, the Controller of her Household, and the
Countess Festetics. He arrived punctually in a magnificent four-horse
carriage with postilions, and rapidly exchanged the cap that he was
wearing on one side of his beautiful wavy hair for the stiff Austrian
shako. He was wearing the Grand Cross of the Order of St. Stephen, put
on upside down, and the sash, which in Austria was worn at the waist,
across his shoulder, although the correct way had been explained to him.

166
Marie Festetics thought him “a handsome man, with the bearing of a
stage king or a Lohengrin in the wedding procession.”
Sisi greeted him very cordially and was about to present her lady-in-
waiting, but he gave her a piercing glance with those wonderful eyes
whose expression would change so rapidly, now soft and dreamy, now
alight with a sparkle of malice, as though by a flash of lightning. Then
suddenly the burning, sparkling eyes grew cold and an expression of
positive cruelty came into them. The King accompanied the Empress
into the house, his heavy step contrasting with her elastic one, which
gave the impression that she was floating rather than walking.
Sisi and Ludwig were both wonderfully handsome and had certain
traits in common, including a love of solitude, a tendency to indulge in
occasional fits of brooding, and a love of riding. Yet they were so
fundamentally different Sisi found it hard to talk to the King. His
presence made her feel ill-at-ease. She remembered that his brother was
already insane and that the King himself showed, to say the least, strong
symptoms of the same disorder, and she was terrified that the same
terrible disaster might befall her, because, after all, she belonged to the
same Bavarian family. She was, however, somewhat reassured when she
found Ludwig’s conversation quite normal.

At the end of September, the Empress returned to Buda, where she went
for long walks among the surrounding hills, her favorite being the
summit of the Blocksberg, a rocky promontory with a glorious view
rising towering over the Danube.
Some isolated outbreaks of cholera in the city drove her away at the
end of October, and she went to Gödöllö, where preparations were now
being made for hunting. She had succeeded recently in inspiring the
Emperor to appreciate her own taste for this sport and the two would ride
together for hours through the forests around the palace. The Empress
was in her element following the hounds, and felt a sense of triumph
when men were being thrown from their horses all around her while she
herself proudly negotiated all obstacles. The hunt was difficult and one
had to ride “devilishly well.”
She sent Franz Josef detailed reports of every hunt.
“The meet was at the racecourse,” she wrote to him on November 22,
1872. “I drove a carriage so that there was no expense (to set your all-
highest mind at rest). It was a very fine chase, with the fox on ahead and

167
the hounds after him. Holmes [the man in charge of Sisi’s twenty-six
horse stable at Gödöllö], Pista and I always led the field, so we had no
need to hurry and could take our time jumping the many ditches. Of
those behind us, the following came down: Elemér Batthyány (horse
killed on the spot); Sárolta Auersperg (who fell over Elemér Batthyány,
neither of them hurt); and one of the grooms with the fast gray (no harm
done). Before the chase even started, Béla Keglevich and Viktor Zichy
were thrown, the latter while standing still. Old Béla Wenckheim was
delighted. He said it was of a good chase. But the fox ran to earth. They
dug all around the spot for a fearfully long time, but in the end left the
poor beast in peace.”
Sometimes the Empress was in the saddle from eleven o’clock in the
morning until half-past five in the afternoon, and when there happened to
be no meet, she would ride horse after horse for hours on end in the little
riding school at Gödöllö.
Andrássy often came out to Gödöllö and received reports of what was
happening in the house from his confidante, Marie Festetics, who told
him about all the grumbling, abuse and gossip that went on in Sisi’s
entourage, and how she had to constantly defend her mistress. The
Empress seemed to her to be positively treated like an outlaw, and
although she was the Emperor’s consort, people felt they could say
anything they liked about her with impunity. To which Andrássy justly
replied, “Yes, but you know it is not easy to find something nice to say
every day.”
Besides Andrássy, the Countess Festetics visited the other great man
to whom she owed her position, Ferenc Deák, who was living in a hotel
room and was leading the lonely and suffering life that would end with
his death. The Empress sent Deák presents of books and flowers, and
asked if she might visit him. His sufferings cast quite a shadow over her
hunting season which was usually so gay.
A meet in the beautiful surroundings of Gödöllö was a lovely sight,
and loveliest of all was the Empress herself, who looked best among the
gentlemen in pink, her magnificent figure set off by her close-fitting
riding habit and riding her splendid mount with the most perfect mastery
and grace. Andrássy often joined the hunt and on October 5 expressed
his feelings about her in a confidential letter to Frau von Ferenczy.
“You can imagine,” he said, “how enthusiastic the young people are
when they see her. Sometimes they express this feeling by following her

168
too closely like dolphins around a ship, and nobody can prevent this …
Yesterday it was quite dark and rained when we came home. My cab
happened to be there and I offered it to Their Majesties. His Majesty
accepted, but only for the Queen, and so I had the good fortune to escort
her to the station. When we arrived it was crowded with people waiting
to see Their Majesties. Imagine their comical faces when the Queen
stepped out of a cab with me and I conducted her to the waiting room.
They did not recover until the Emperor and the Archduke Wilhelm
arrived after us. You see what an old gentleman your friend has become,
to be trusted to escort beautiful ladies through night and mist. I must add,
however, that a long drive in the dark over a bumpy road may be a
delicate matter even for the most sensible paterfamilias. This one, it is
true, lasted only a few minutes, and in so short a time as that not even
Adalbert Keglevich or your friend Pista could forget who it was who had
been entrusted to their care."
The Empress was always in the best of spirits after a hunt and
charming to the Emperor who never ceased to adore her, and escaped
from Vienna to Gödöllö as often as possible. But no sooner was she at
home again and surrounded by courtiers than this good humor vanished
almost instantly. When she went for a walk in the park, she was perfectly
horrified to meet them and would wear a thick black veil and carry a big
sunshade or a fan that she always had with her, even on horseback.
“Let us hurry out of here,” she would say, turning down the nearest
path. “I can hear exactly what they are saying.” Or, “Yes, that Bellegarde
hates me so much that I start perspiring when he so much as looks at
me.”
All this, the Countess Festetics remarks, was often pure imagination;
the Empress felt nervous of people who would have honored, or even
idolized, her if she had not openly distrusted them.
In other respects Sisi knew as little of the world as a child. She had no
idea of the value of money. So, on December 15, 1872, she made a trip
to Pest with Marie Festetics, descending in the funicular railway like any
ordinary person to the Kettenbrücke, the suspension bridge connecting
Buda with Pest. On the way down she asked the Countess whether she
had any money on her.
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“How much?”
“Not very much. Twenty gulden.”

169
 “But that is a great deal,” said Sisi.
She wanted to go to Kugler’s (Gerbeaud’s), the world-famous
confectioner in Pest, to buy things for Valerie, and succeeded in reaching
the shop unrecognized. She made her purchases with the zest of a child,
and when a large package had been assembled, she asked if that would
cost twenty gulden, only to discover that the real price was one hundred
and fifty!
Although Festetics was entirely under the Empress’s spell, and
devoted to her heart and soul, she was by no means blind to her faults.
She was particularly concerned about a certain laziness that Sisi
constantly gave way to, but she simply could not understand the
principal fault for which the Empress was criticized: that of being
lacking in any sense of her high destiny or pride in being a Sovereign
and the consort of an Emperor. This was all part of Sisi’s inherent
character which even such strong external influences as those of the
Court of Vienna were powerless to alter.
In some respects she was in advance of her age, both intellectually
and in matters of hygiene. She was careful to preserve the slender lines
of her body and hardened them by sport and gymnastics. Etiquette and
traditional behavior, and a pride in the exclusiveness of her birth, were
ideas to which she could never become reconciled because her early
training had been far too free and unfettered. Besides, she had an inner
emotional life of her own that could never find an outlet in the
atmosphere of the Court, which was exclusively concerned with external
appearance. She was in constant revolt against the class-consciousness of
those around her and against partisan considerations of any kind, and this
led to endless conflicts. Her free poetic youth had developed in her a
passion for liberty on which no other influences made any impression.
So, while judging her, it is hard to maintain an even balance. She
wanted everyone to be contented and happy, and indulged herself in
constant dreams and brooding that were dangerous for someone in her
position. She wanted to get to the bottom of everything and possessed
too inquiring a mind. She needed something to do, and since the
occupation of being an Empress was totally at odds with her
temperament, her abilities were mostly wasted. Whenever she did take
up anything, she threw herself into it whole-heartedly, as she never did
anything by halves. Her exaggerated concerns over little Valerie, for

170
instance, had become a standing joke to the point that the child was
given the nickname of “Extramädel” [the special child].
Sisi was always in search of something to do as she was active by
nature. She failed to impose her personality on the Court, although she
had a clearer gift of insight than most of those she was surrounded by
and a better grasp of the current situation, while the fact that she had no
desire to dominate others gave her an advantage over all the vain and
pushy people she was brought into contact with. She herself had no
ambition or desire for popularity, and no desire to make use of her power
and rank, but would have liked to be her husband’s guardian angel and
wished him all happiness and good fortune as the father of her son who
would one day inherit his mighty empire and exalted rank.
This was the Empress Sisi as she was described in the 1873 diary of
the Countess Festetics. This was the woman, with her almost
supernatural beauty, whose countless virtues and exceptional qualities
were often ignored – sometimes deliberately – because of her little sins
of omission and her peculiarities.
The Empress was certainly very sensitive and the gossip that came to
her ears embittered her. She did not fight back but followed the dictates
of her nature by withdrawing into silence and solitude.
“What she finds painful today,” wrote Marie Festetics prophetically,
“will become easy in time and she will do less and less. People will
attack her more and more, and for all her riches she will become poorer
and poorer. And no one will remember that she was driven into this
loneliness.”
Festetics describes the Emperor as having a quick mind but of totally
lacking imagination. Overwhelmed with work, to which he devoted
himself with an admirable sense of duty, he was averse to negative
opinions and never understood the world of possibilities in which Sisi
needed to live. In spite of his worship of her, he did not understand this
side of her nature. She was hurt when he described her enthusiasms as
“scaling the clouds,” and whenever he commented on it a wall seemed to
rise up between them.
On February 9, 1873, Sisi lost one of her few remaining friends at
Court, the Empress Karoline Augusta, sister of the Archduchess Sophie
and fourth wife of the late Emperor Franz I. She had always taken Sisi’s
side but could do little to help her as she lived in complete retirement in

171
Salzburg so as not to overshadow the Archduchess Sophie, who could
not be given the title of Empress. Her death gave Sisi great sorrow.

The charge that the Empress was too neglectful of her duties as
Sovereign was certainly unjustified in the year of 1873. She was seen
everywhere: in orphanages and lunatic asylums as well as during the
impressive ceremonies of Holy Week, the Corpus Christi procession and
the washing of the feet on Maundy Thursday, occasions that the Imperial
Court always treated with the greatest pomp. She may have heaved a
sigh, but she played her part so admirably that it was a joy to watch her.
She was the very personification of charm when, dressed in her long
black gown, she bent down to wash the feet of the old women or knelt
before the Holy Sepulcher on Good Friday, or walked with a lighted
candle in her hand amid the peeling bells and the roll of drums in the
great procession that seemed to represent, as in a pageant, the whole
splendor of the House of Habsburg.
Nobody appreciated what it cost her to perform these ceremonial
duties that were so much against her nature. She hated being stared at,
and for her, ceremonial meant running the gauntlet of curious eyes hour
after hour. Not until she had driven out on the Prater, changed into her
riding habit, or gone for a gallop on one of her splendid horses, did she
recover her spirits. But even then crowds surrounded her at every turn
and never tired of gazing at her spectacular beauty.
At times the Empress would ride with some cavalier as her escort,
and often with Andrássy. As a rule they were on excellent terms, but
occasionally a stormy relationship arose between them because, with him
too, she liked to have her own way.

On April 20, immediately after Easter, the wedding of Sisi’s daughter,

the Archduchess Gisela, took place. The Empress attended the ceremony
in a dress embroidered in silver, with a diamond crown set on her
glorious masses of hair, looking more like a young girl than the bride’s
mother. But she bore herself with imposing dignity and it was not until
the words “I will” were spoken that she was seen to be in tears. The
“heartless woman,” as she was called, was weeping at being parted from
the child who had never really been her own.
The festivities that followed the ceremony were a perfect torture for
her; receptions, a concert, enormous dinner-parties, and a gala

172
performance at the theater seemed to her like so many stations of the
cross. The ‘Midsummer Night’s Dream’ was the play chosen for the gala
performance, and Sisi wondered why a play had been chosen to celebrate
a royal wedding in which a princess falls in love with an ass, while
Prince Leopold laughingly asked his wife: “Is this intended as an
allusion to me?” It was explained, however, that the ‘Midsummer
Night’s’ Dream’ was standard for all weddings and the young couple
were duly amused at this remarkable custom.
They were received with special honor in Munich as the bride was the
daughter of the lovely Empress whom King Ludwig of Bavaria idolized.
They were driven from the station to the palace in the King’s famous
gala coach drawn by six white horses. This was the first occasion on
which anybody had been allowed to see it, and with its rich wood-
carvings and beautifully painted panels, it had cost no less than fifty
thousand gulden.

The wedding festivities were hardly over before another flurry of activity
began. For several months past, preparations had been in progress for a
splendid Universal Exhibition in Vienna. Dignitaries from all over the
world, including the German Crown Prince and the Princess and the
Prince of Wales, had announced their intention of being present at the
opening ceremony, and in pursuance of Andrássy’s policy of
rapprochement with Germany, the German princes were to be especially
singled out for attention. They were staying at Hetzendorf and it was
arranged that they were to proceed to the Exhibition buildings in a
splendid procession immediately following that of the Emperor and
Empress.
Franz Josef’s immediate suite was to assemble in the Empress’s
apartments at eleven o’clock and duly did so, but the Empress failed to
appear. Although it was not yet quite eleven, the Emperor began to pace
restlessly up and down. At this point a message was brought to Count
Grünne, Master of the Horse, saying that the Crown Prince and
Princess’s procession was already passing along the Ringstrasse. The
Count informed the Emperor of this and he grew purple with rage.
“It is beyond belief” he said, “that such a thing could be possible! My
orders were that the Crown Prince was to arrive after me and now this
infernal mess has come about! He will arrive before me and I shall not be

173
there to receive him. Who was it that allowed the carriage to start earlier
than agreed, contrary to my orders?”
Paling visibly, the Count replied quietly, "It was I, Your Majesty.”
The Emperor, absolutely beside himself, made a menacing move
toward the Count, saying, “You shall answer for this!”
But suddenly the Empress was at his side. She had entered the room
unnoticed while everybody was watching this painful scene in an
embarrassed silence. She laid her hand on the Emperor’s arm, and as
though she had touched him with a magic wand, his angry words died on
his lips, and she looked at him with such tenderly imploring eyes that his
furious frown disappeared.
Then she took him by the arm.
“Please let us waste no more time,” she said, in a calm, gentle voice.
“Let us go.”
The Emperor docilely followed her advice and in a minute or two
they were all settled in the carriages.
Marie Festetics was a witness to this scene. “And yet,” she comments
in her diary, “had not the Empress once said to me, ‘that man Grünne has
done me so much harm that I do not think I shall ever be able to forgive
him, even on my deathbed’?"
The Crown Prince’s procession was hastily informed of what had
happened and stopped under the railway bridge on the Prater, tactfully
pretending not to see the Imperial carriages driving past. In a few
minutes everybody had assembled in the gigantic rotunda of the
Exhibition, and then, and not until then, the Crown Prince drove on,
looking like Lohengrin in his splendid white Guard’s uniform with his
silver eagle-crowned helmet glittering in the sunlight.
The Emperor delivered the opening address in his fine, sonorous
voice, the bands struck up the Austrian National Anthem, flags were
dipped in salute, and the Exhibition was opened.
For three hours the Emperor and Empress toured around with their
guests inspecting the exhibits of the various countries, and were received
everywhere with unprecedented enthusiasm. When Sisi entered the
Hungarian pavilion, there was a frantic outburst of cheering that drew a
blush to her cheek. Everyone was pleased that the Prussian guests got to
see how popular and beloved the Emperor and Empress were in Vienna.
Sisi got on very well with the Crown Princess Victoria [formerly the
English Princess Royal, and later Empress and Queen of Prussia, mother

174
of Kaiser Wilhelm II], whom she found full of feeling, attractive,
intelligent and modern in her views. She even presented her with her
portrait, a thing she never did except for those whom she found really
sympathetic, no exception being made in the case of royalty – rather the
reverse, in fact. The two women understood each other at once and their
meeting was the beginning of a life-long friendship.
The Empress found the festivities that were inseparable from the
Exhibition most exhausting and sought to recover in nature whenever
possible. The spring was a glorious one and she liked going for walks
early in the morning on the green, blossom-scented Prater. At six o'clock
in the morning, while Vienna was still asleep, the Empress and Marie
Festetics would walk to the Lusthaus and back because, at that time of
day, there were no idle sightseers and curious crowds to attract attention
to her. If she went out later, she was at once followed by a train of
people, which always annoyed her and made her nervous. It was not that
she was afraid of assassination – few Sovereigns have been so fearless –
but being stared at caused her to shrink painfully into herself. She was as
shy as a roe and was forever complaining that everybody else could
enjoy themselves as much as they liked, but that she could not even take
a walk in peace. There were even people so lacking in consideration that
when she visited an exhibition incognito, they would actually push
themselves in between her and the picture she was looking at and stare at
her through their lorgnettes, or even examine her through binoculars
from a short distance away. When such a thing happened, Sisi flushed
hotly and left the room without a word, never to return.
When she attended the races, which, with her fondness for everything
connected with horses, she loved to do, this option was not available to
her. On the way to the Freudenau she had to pass through a serried mass
of people stretching from the Hofburg to the race course, all waiting to
catch a glimpse of her. She was received with enthusiasm all the way and
bowed her acknowledgements, but by the time she reached the
crossroads at the Praterstern, with four kilometers of the avenue still to
go, she said to the Countess Festetics, who was seated beside her,
“Marie, I cannot go on. I am quite seasick already.”
And she had indeed turned quite pale.
“One must have experienced all this to gain any understanding of it,"
commented the Countess.

175
 Once at the races, however, she quickly recovered, as she was
amusing herself and it was evident from her expressions that she herself
would have loved to have mounted one of the thoroughbreds racing over
the green turf.
Sisi played her part valiantly at all the festivities and banquets.
Nobody at Court spared themselves on these occasions, as Sovereigns
and other royalty were now streaming into Vienna from all corners of the
earth, and the more insignificant the ruler, the more importance they
themselves attached to their rank. But the greatest monarchs in Europe
attended too, among them the Tsar Alexander II, whose attitude was very
reserved and whose face hardly ever lit up with even the slightest sign of
amiability. Nevertheless, Sisi’s charm melted him, and she also cast her
spell over his suite, including Prince Gortchakov, the lively little man
who wielded so much power in Russia and was so hostile to Austria.
There was a Prince Dolgoruky in the Tsar’s suite who had greatly
admired the Countess Festetics for some time and who now asked for her
hand in marriage, which much disconcerted Sisi.
“I will allow you to make yourself agreeable,” she said to her, “but
not to fall in love, and still less to get married. I do not want you to leave
me for the sake of a stranger.”
This may sound a little selfish, but Marie Festetics felt flattered, and
succeeded, after a struggle, to escape from this predicament so that the
Empress got her way and Dolgoruky abandoned his quest.
For the rest, the Russians had sharp eyes.
“You have enemies here at Court,” said Count Shuvalov to the
Countess one day, “you and that adorable woman the Empress. I believe
they take it amiss that you are both fond of Hungarians.”
The Countess merely laughed and thought to herself, ‘They have
excellent spies,’ before hurrying down to a banquet at which the whole
company, including the Emperor and Empress, was already assembled –
the whole company, that is, except for the Prince of Wales and Prince
Arthur, who had not yet arrived. Both of these Princes were charming
and very popular, but wherever their engagements might be – whether at
dinner, in the riding school, on the Prater, or at the Exhibition – they
were always late.
The Emperor and Empress never got any rest. Everything was a
terrible rush and even Franz Josef felt the strain.

176
 “I am tired out,” he said one day, “and should like to absent myself on
sick leave for a time.”
It was a sign of the enormous change that had taken place in the
relationship between Austria and Germany during the last few years
when, on June 24, the German Empress Augusta also arrived, bringing a
signed letter from Kaiser Wilhelm I. Her tall figure gave her a certain
dignity, but she wore too much make up and was over-dressed in general,
and her carriage was rather pompous and theatrical. In strong contrast
with Sisi, she spoke in a loud voice expressing grossly exaggerated
opinions, so that only a few minutes had gone by before she was known
among the courtiers as “the foghorn.” The Empress Sisi shone all the
more brightly by contrast, but before long the Empress Augusta’s real
and essentially noble character won all hearts in spite of her
eccentricities, and the reaction in her favor went so far that, by the time
she left, the members of the suites were holding her up as a model of all
that a Sovereign should be, and insinuating, as usual, that she was an
example for Sisi to follow.
Various absurd incidents occurred to break the monotony of the
situation. At a great banquet in the Kaiserpavillon, Sisi had ordered for
the last course a sumptuous chocolate cream served in small pots, and as
each course was served, she warned her ladies not to eat too much so as
to leave room for it.
At last the great moment arrived and the fat little restaurateur, who
had reserved himself the honor of serving the Empress in person, came
tripping fussily across the polished floor with a solid silver dish in his
hands. Suddenly, he slipped and fell sprawling to the ground, while the
precious contents of the little pots trickled away in all directions.
The Emperor, with his accustomed good nature, sprang up to go to
the poor fellow’s assistance, but Sisi merely remarked softly, “Watch!
He’ll scrape it all up and offer it to us.”
A fresh supply was quickly brought out, however, but the only thing
the Empress said was, “Oh well, then it will just be served up to
somebody else.”
After that, there was a visit to the circus where she most of all
enjoyed the horses and the performing monkeys as she could then laugh
until the tears streamed down her face.
So far the royal visits had been, on the whole, nothing but a burden,
but the Shah of Persia, who arrived on July 30, provided entertainment

177
for the whole Court. The Shah had heard of the Empress’s beauty and,
accustomed as he was to collecting around him all the loveliest women
in his kingdom, was particularly curious to see her. When he first met
her, she was wearing a white dress with a train, embroidered in silver,
and a purple velvet sash, with a circlet of flashing diamonds and
amethysts on her flowing hair. Marie Festetics noted that she had never
seen her looking lovelier.
On entering the room the Shah, who looked like a typical middle-
eastern ruler with his black hair and beard, remained standing before her
for a moment, quite dumbfounded. Then he put on his gold-rimmed
glasses, examined her calmly from top to toe, and despite the presence of
the Emperor, who was looking on with the greatest amusement, walked
all round her, exclaiming at intervals, “Mon Dieu, qu'elle est belle!” [My
God, she is so beautiful!]
Indeed, he was so absorbed in gazing fully at her that at last the
Emperor had to pluck him by the sleeve and remind him to offer the
Empress his arm and take her in to dinner. At first he did not understand,
but finally it dawned upon him, whereupon he took Sisi by the hand and
escorted her into the banqueting hall, swinging her arm to and fro. She
was vastly amused and the Emperor was in mortal terror in case at any
moment she might be unable to contain her laughter.
Matters got even worse at table. Behind the Shah’s chair stood his
Grand Vizier, with whom he kept up a conversation in Persian
throughout. The fish was served accompanied by a green sauce in a
silver sauceboat with a ladle. This looked suspicious to the Shah as he
found it suggestive of arsenic, so he took a ladleful, tasted it, and calmly
replaced the ladle in the sauceboat with a grimace, while Sisi tried
desperately to concentrate her attention on a portrait of the Emperor
Franz I hanging on the opposite wall. The Shah bowed to her and
insisted that she take his glass of champagne, drink out of it and clink
glasses with him. He did not eat much as most of the items seemed to
him rather questionable.
But now a footman appeared with a great silver bowl full of fragrant
strawberries. The Shah calmly took it out of the man’s hand, set it before
him, and proceeded to consume the entire contents down to the very last
berry.
But the episode which most delighted the Empress was one that
concerned the old Count Crenneville, formerly the Emperor’s all-

178
powerful Adjutant General and now his Chief Chamberlain, who had
been attached to the Shah. Once, when the Shah was driving on the
Prater in an open carriage, he made Crenneville, who was in full
uniform, sit not beside him but in a little seat with his back to the horses.
And since the Shah found the sun too much for him, he handed
Crenneville, amicably enough, a white umbrella to holder over the Shah
to shade him. The full beauty of this episode can only be understood by
those who knew Count Crenneville.
Sisi drove out to Laxenburg to see the Shah’s three favorite horses,
whose manes and tails were dyed rose-pink, over which his Master of the
Horse had to keep guard in person. But while everyone else laughed at
the Shah, Sisi considered him an eccentric and was particularly pleased
by the fact that he was quite at his ease, and said and did exactly as he
liked. He never spoke a friendly word to anyone who was not brought
absolutely face-to-face with him and only gave presents or decorations to
those who took his fancy. When he presented his portrait, set in
diamonds, to the Emperor and Count Andrássy, it was pointed out to him
that it was customary to confer some special mark of distinction on those
of the Emperor’s brothers who happened to be present.
“No, don't want to,” he replied calmly. “I only give my portrait to
those whom I like.”
As for the Empress, he called her a goddess and told Andrássy she
was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
“Such dignity, such a smile, such kindness!” he said. “If ever I were
to come back again, it would be solely as a mark of respect for her.”
On August 12, there was a splendid fête at Schönbrunn, with a
wonderful display of fireworks at the Gloriette. The Shah was enchanted.
But while the Countess Goess was presenting the old ladies to him at the
tea party that followed, he suddenly remarked, “Merci. Assez.” [Thanks,
that’s quite enough.]
On the day of his departure, he had the Countess Festetics roused
from her sleep at four o’clock in the morning and commanded her to
express his gratitude to the Empress once more and tell her that her
image would never fade from his memory.
The period of his visit had indeed been a lively one and served as the
basis for amusing conversations for some time to come.

179
Sisi now returned to the country with great relief and devoted her time to
her children. The Emperor spent a short time at Ischl too, but returned to
Vienna when the King and Queen of Saxony, to Sisi’s great annoyance,
announced their intention of visiting the Exhibition.
“Was it really worthwhile to return in such a hurry just because of the
Saxons?” she wrote. “You could so easily have made them come at the
same time as the Serbians and the Greeks. You spoil everybody so much
and you do not even get any thanks for your excessive politeness – quite
the reverse, in fact. You really agree with me, but you will not admit it,
as always happens when one has done something stupid.”
Meanwhile, the financial world had been alarmed by a great panic on
the Vienna Stock Exchange, and the Exhibition, which had already
suffered from a cholera scare, closed with an enormous deficit. Sisi did
not understand the deeper significance of this, but her confidence in the
policy of the Ministers, and above all in their economic insight, was
badly shaken. In these times she once again proved herself a faithful
consoler and a true friend to the Emperor, who took these troubles very
much to heart.
In September, the King of Italy was expected to make a visit as a
defining step in the new direction given to Austrian policy under
Andrássy’s guidance. The Empress returned to Schönbrunn for the
occasion, but when the King arrived, she was suffering from a fever and
so unwell that she was unable to receive him, much to the King’s
disappointment as she was the only person who had aroused his
curiosity. Andrássy was greatly put out too as the situation was
guaranteed to be misinterpreted and to give rise to all kinds of gossip.
People remembered how Sisi had cancelled several previous
engagements, such as when she decided to visit the Queen of the Two
Sicilies instead.
This time, however, she was not feigning illness, a habit of which the
Viennese freely accused her.
“Heaven knows,” commented the Countess Festetics, “she had given
proof enough during the Exhibition that she does her duty. She had
looked forward eagerly to the horse show, but was unable to attend it
because she had to stay in bed for ten days.”
As soon as Sisi was well enough, she fled to Gödöllö to recover
rapidly. It was now October, the leaves were falling and the Forest of
Haraszti was gorgeous with its autumn hues, but even at the end of the

180
month she was still only allowed to take rides in the park on a pony. To
provide herself with a little amusement, she persuaded Ida Ferenczy and
Marie Festetics, who had never ridden anything in their lives, to allow
themselves to be mounted on two donkeys given to her by the Khedive,
and she would watch the Emperor wistfully as he rode off in pink to a
meet at the head of his guests, with Prince Leopold at his side looking
ten years older than his father-in-law.
The Empress was still far from well, and on the night of October 20,
the Emperor was so anxious about her that he asked Hofrat Widerhofer
to tell him, for God’s sake, what was the matter with her as she was
looking so dreadful.
But her illness was not as bad as all that. She had a strong constitution
and the rest at Gödöllö did her good. She would have recovered still
more rapidly had she not been irritated by the constant bickering that
went on all round her.
There were, as a matter of fact, three Courts present: one attached to
Franz Josef, another that the Empress had gradually managed to choose
in accordance with her own wishes, and a third around the Crown Prince,
who, although only fifteen years old, was already behaving like an adult
and whose retinue had therefore become less dependent on his parents
than before. These three Courts waged war upon each other, which
caused endless unpleasantness.

On December 2, Their Majesties had to go to Vienna for the silver

jubilee of the Emperor’s reign. The celebrations were beautiful and
impressive, but at the same time exhausting. In the evening there were to
be great illuminations, but the Empress wanted a little fresh air first, so
she went for a walk with the Countess Festetics along the Ringstrasse.
She had often done so before without attracting attention, but on this
occasion she was recognized and surrounded by a cheering crowd.
At first all went well and she smiled graciously. Soon, however,
thousands of people began to stream up from every direction and it was
impossible for them to go forward or backward, and those nearest to Sisi
and her companion were now pressing in on them.
The Countess begged the crowd to move back as they were both
terrified and could hardly breathe, and the police were helpless to rectify
the situation. Then, suddenly, the Countess began to scream, “You are
crushing the Empress! Help! Help! Make way! Make way!”

181
 At last, after about an hour, some men succeeded in opening up a
narrow corridor through the crowd so that they could get to a carriage
into which Sisi was rapidly ushered half-dead with agitation and utterly
exhausted. The carriage could only advance at a snail’s pace owing to the
mass of people and it took a long time for them to reach the Hofburg.
When at last it arrived, the Empress thanked the Countess with an
enchanting smile.
“It was really you who saved me,” she said to the Countess’s delight.
“No one in the world,” she noted in her diary, “can look at one as she
does when she says anything kind, and such a look and such words never
fail to make one feel happy.”
On December 3, the day after the celebrations, the Empress returned
to Gödöllö. The shortness of her stay in Vienna on such an occasion was
resented in certain quarters there and a newspaper article commented on
the fact that “that strange woman the Empress” preferred to stay
anywhere rather than in Vienna. Shortly afterwards, when a deputation
from the ‘Concordia’ society of journalists waited upon the Emperor to
congratulate him on his silver jubilee, he expressed the hope that in
future the press would not concern itself with the private and family life
of the Empress, in pointed reference to this particular article.

The year of 1874 opened with a sensation as the lovely young Empress,
who did not look anything like her age, became a grandmother. Both she
and her daughter Gisela, who gave birth to a daughter on January 4, had
married at the age of sixteen. She at once started out for Munich,
although there had been several cases of cholera there, but declined to
stay in the palace owing to her dread of being left alone with King
Ludwig.
On the day after the baptism, she suddenly appeared in Marie
Festetic’s room and announced that she was going with a doctor to visit a
cholera hospital.
“I am going alone,” she said, “because I cannot take upon myself the
responsibility of letting anyone attend me.”
The Countess was aghast and tried to dissuade Sisi from doing this,
but in vain.
When they reached the hospital, Sisi tried to leave the Countess in the
carriage, but she protested.

182
 “I beg Your Majesty,” she said, “not to shame me by refusing to let
me attend you.”
In the hospital they saw the most harrowing sights, but the Empress
went from bed to bed and, with her usual captivating charm and
sweetness, spoke a few words of comfort to the sick and dying. Over-
anxious though she might be where the Emperor or her children were
concerned, she was entirely heedless of any danger to herself. It was
never her custom to announce her visits to hospitals beforehand so as to
avoid all preparations that would be likely to disturb the patients. She
came and went without a sound, and with infinite kindness in her eyes.
She approached a young man who was on the verge of death.
“I shall die soon now,” he gasped.
“Oh no,” said the Empress. “God is good and He will help you.”
"But I have the cold sweat of death upon me,” said the young fellow,
stretching his hand out to her.
She touched it and said, with an indescribable expression of kindness
and sympathy, “Why should you think it is the sweat of death? Your
hand is warm. That must just be a good and healthy perspiration.”
The sick man smiled and said with deep feeling, “I thank Your
Majesty a thousand times. Perhaps the good God will grant me my life.
God bless Your Majesty.”
The sick man, the Empress, the Countess and the doctor were all in
tears. A few hours later he died.
On returning home, the Empress changed all her clothes, washed
herself and threw away her gloves. Nor did she visit Gisela that day, but
only went for a short walk in the park. Two mornings later, she did not
feel quite well, which caused terrible agitation among the whole
Household, although fortunately nothing came of it. But all of Munich
was talking of the Empress’s courage in visiting hospital.
She spent a great deal of time with her sister, the Queen of the Two
Sicilies. The Empress, said the Countess Festetics, was undoubtedly the
wittier, more original and less conventional of the two, and her character
was the finer one, but the Queen of the Two Sicilies was very clever and
energetic, and because if this had considerable influence over the
Empress. She was forever harping on about the advantages of her own
existence as a “Queen on the retired list” who could do whatever she
liked and live wherever she liked, and this encouraged Sisi’s distaste for
her own burdens.

183
 In recent years the Queen had been in England and never ceased
singing the praises of that country and the glorious hunting to be had
there. The Prince of Wales had already told the Empress about it during
his visit to Vienna, so a great urge was gradually forming itself in Sisi’s
mind to get to know this riders’ paradise.
On January 17, she paid a visit to Ludwig II’s mother, who talked to
her with childlike levity about things that were of no importance at the
time but acquired a grim significance afterwards. She described, for
instance, how she had been alarmed by rain falling in her room although
the sky was cloudless outside. At last the mystery was cleared up: the
pond in the King’s winter garden on the roof was leaking. She talked as
though having a blue lake on the roof, with moonshine and other
embellishments, was the most natural thing in the world. While she was
giving a humorous account of this, a handsome young man with dark
eyes and dark hair burst into the room. It was Prince Otto, whose mental
condition was growing worse and worse. Shortly after this the Empress
rose to leave. The Prince gave her his arm and conducted her to her
carriage, but she whispered anxiously to the Countess, “Please keep an
eye on him. I feel as if he might throw me down the stairs.”
In spite of a swollen face and the cholera scare in Munich, Ludwig
could not deny himself the pleasure of coming from his country palaces
over and over again to visit Sisi, which was certainly no pleasure for her.
Toward the evening of January 17, he appeared again. The Empress was
tired and sleepy and wanted to go to bed, but the King stayed for hours
and seemed like he would never go. Sisi summoned the Countess
Festetics repeatedly, but the King did not take the hint. Finally, she took
him with her to the lady-in-waiting’s room, which he heartily disliked as
he always wanted to be alone with the Empress. But this failed and Sisi
returned with him to the drawing room in a thoroughly nervous state.
At last she came running out by herself and called to the Countess,
“Save me, Marie, and think of some way of getting rid of him. I cannot
stand it any longer.”
After a while, the lady-in-waiting accordingly tapped at the door and
was encouraged by an unusually loud, “Come in.”
“Your Majesty ordered me to knock at half-past ten,” she said, “as
Your Majesty has to get up early tomorrow morning. I did not attempt to
disturb Your Majesty earlier, but now it is past half-past-ten and I fear

184
Your Majesty may be developing a headache. I hope this will excuse my
presumption in disturbing Your Majesty.”
She said this very apologetically but the King fixed her with a very
disagreeable expression, remarking, “One forgets all about time here.”
He had been talking to Sisi about his broken engagement and his love
of solitude, and how people misjudged him.
He had scarcely gone when Sisi approached Marie Festetics.
“Thank God,” she said, “that it succeeded. But it was dreadful. I feel
terribly sorry for the poor King. I am fond of him, but I am still fonder of
my bed. Yet I believe there is a certain resemblance between him and
me, and a tendency to melancholy and a love of solitude are all part of
it.”
“God forbid that there should be any real resemblance,” replied the
Countess. "Your Majesty simply wants to excuse everything on the plea
that it is a family idiosyncrasy for which nobody is responsible.”
Sisi looked rather taken aback and then laughed.
“It is bold of you to say that,” she said, “although there is something
in it. But I pity the poor King from the bottom of my heart.”
“Yes,” commented the Countess in her diary, “a King is indeed pitiful
when he is not mad enough to be shut away, yet at the same time so
abnormal as to have no interactions with sensible people in society.
During this visit he ought to have seen long before he did that the
Empress was absolutely distracted and hardly knew what to do with him.
But it was enough for him just to gaze at her.”
It is curious that Ludwig’s mother had no clear idea of what awaited
her sons. The last time Sisi had visited her, she had expressed a wish to
visit a hospital again. And now, on January 18, the Queen-Mother
suddenly proposed that they should go together to visit a lunatic asylum.
This interested Sisi because of the frequent signs of mental illness in her
own family, so she was anxious to learn more about it and accepted the
suggestion with a certain eager curiosity.
The visit was carried out with great thoroughness. Sisi heard the
unfortunate patients now laughing horribly, now raging and screaming,
now weeping bitterly or singing in a clear voice. One girl with red hair
displayed her skill as a pianist. She struck one note three times and then
began to rattle violently up and down the keyboard with her beautiful
white hands. Another woman looked hard at Sisi. “You are an Empress,”
she said, “and yet you wear a woolen dress? How disgraceful!"

185
 A painter, smilingly, showed them a drawing of a stag with a church
balanced on its antlers, with a tree on top of the church instead of a cross.
And so it went on for two hours.
It produced a terrible impression upon the Empress, whose face was
white and serious. The Countess was deeply affected, too, and the only
one to remain unmoved was the Queen-Mother, who had two sons on the
verge of madness.
“Marie,” said Sisi to the Countess when they had returned to the
carriage, “it has had a terrible effect on me. I had never imagined it
would be so sad. I was astonished at the Queen. It seemed almost to
amuse her. But, of course, the poor thing is used to it.”

On January 22, Sisi was back again in her beloved Pest and could enjoy
the beautiful view from the royal palace at Buda. On the following day,
the Emperor arrived too and criticized her somewhat for visiting the
cholera hospital in Munich. Next she made her first appearance as a
grandmother at a Court ball in Vienna, radiant with youth and beauty.
On February 11, the Emperor left for St. Petersburg to return the
Tsar’s visit. He was to be away until the twenty-second, and for a
moment Sisi was in doubt as to whether to remain in Vienna or to return
to her beloved Hungary. But since the Emperor’s visit to Russia was
rather unpopular there and Sisi knew that her frequent journeys to
Hungary had caused ill-feeling in Vienna, she decided to remain where
she was.
On Shrove Tuesday the first masked ball took place in the great hall
of the Musical Society [Musikverein]. These assemblies were attended
by women and men, and even young girls, belonging to the highest ranks
of society, and the Shrove Tuesday ball was the most aristocratic of all.
Everybody was saying how splendid it would be this year and Sisi
suddenly took it into her head that she would like to go to it in disguise.
Only Ida Ferenczy, her indispensable hairdresser Frau Feifalik, and her
waiting woman Gabriele Schmidl were let in on the secret, having taken
an oath that they would not betray it.
In the evening they all retired to bed as usual, but as soon as the
whole house was asleep, the Empress got up, put on a great auburn wig
and a domino [masquerade dress] with a train that had imprudently been
made of an unusually beautiful, heavy yellow brocade. Then she put on a
mask with a long lace veil so that her face and even her neck were

186
absolutely concealed, both from the front and from the back. Ida
Ferenczy, who wore a red domino, was to address the Empress as
Gabriele, so that, in case any suspicions were aroused, those suspicions
would fall on Gabriele Schmidl, whose tall, slender figure resembled that
of the Empress.
The two ladies entered the ballroom, seated themselves in the gallery,
and looked down on the merry, noisy throng below. They sat together so
very quietly that nobody came near them, and by the time eleven o’clock
came around Sisi was beginning to feel bored.
Then an idea occurred to Ida Ferenczy.
“Please, Gabriele, “she whispered, “do choose somebody in the
ballroom whose appearance you like and who does not belong to Court
society and I will bring him up to you. At a masked ball one has to talk
to people and mystify them.”
“Do you think so?” replied the Empress as she began to look around
the ballroom.
Presently she noticed an elegant young man walking around by
himself whose face she had never seen before. She pointed him out to
Ida Ferenczy who at once hurried down, slipped her arm suddenly into
this man’s from behind, and began merrily questioning him as to who he
was, whether Count X was there, whether he knew Prince N, and so on.
It was easy to see that she wanted to ascertain the young man’s social
position and find out whether he had any aristocratic connections. The
results of the little examination were satisfactory as it was evident that he
was not connected with the Court at all.
Then, all of a sudden, she asked point-blank whether he would do her
a service.
“With pleasure,” he replied.
“I have a beautiful friend here sitting up in the gallery all alone and
who is terribly bored. Would you be willing to entertain her for a while?”
“Why, of course,” he replied.
Whereupon Ida Ferenczy led the young man up to the Empress who
had been watching this little comedy with great amusement.
The two were now brought face-to-face and a rapid cross-
examination ensued from both sides. Fritz Pacher, who was an official in
a Government office, was a shrewd observer, and the heavy silk domino,
together with the wearer’s whole appearance and every word she uttered,
made him aware that he was in the presence of a lady of the highest rank,

187
so he only attempted a few tentative and embarrassed remarks, at the
same time racking his brains as to who she could be.
Meanwhile, the Empress had risen to her feet, and stood, a tall and
commanding figure by the balustrade, gazing down at the ruckus below.
Then she said abruptly, “You know, I am quite a stranger here. You must
explain things to me a little. Let us begin at the top. What do people say
about the Emperor? Are they content with his government? Are the
consequences of the war quite healed?” To which Fritz Pacher gave
cautious but quite sound answers, accurately interpreting popular
sentiment.
Then he suddenly heard her ask, “And do you know the Empress too?
How do you like her and what do people think and say about her?”
Sisi was convinced nobody would suspect her of being at the ball and
so was willing to risk this very incautious question.
For a moment it flashed through the young man’s mind that he must
be standing beside the Empress and that she was asking him about
herself. But, then again, he had his doubts, and after hesitating for a
moment, he said with some animation, “Of course I only know the
Empress by sight from her riding on the Prater. I can only say that she is
a wonderful, gloriously beautiful woman. General regret is expressed
that she has so strong an objection to letting people see her and is far too
consumed with her horses and her dogs. This is to do her a certain
injustice. I know that a passion for dogs and horses is a family trait, and
there is a story that her father, Duke Max, once said, ‘If we had not been
Princes, we should have been trick-riders!' "
This criticism amused the Empress.
“Tell me,” she said, "how old do you think I am?” upon which the
young man gave the Empress’s exact age.
“You,” he said playfully, “you are thirty-six.”
The Empress gave an involuntary start and said in a somewhat
embarrassed tone, “You are not very polite,” after which she
immediately changed the subject. The conversation now began to
languish until the Empress rose to her feet again and said, “Very well,
now you may go.”
But the young man was not to be dismissed so easily.
“That is most kind of you,” he said ironically. “First you send for me
to come up to you, then you squeeze me dry, and now you dismiss me.
Very well, I will go, as you have obviously had enough of me. But I will

188
be daring enough to ask you one thing – that we should shake hands
before I leave.”
And with these words, Fritz Pacher held out his hand.
The Empress did not take it but rather looked at him in astonishment.
“Very well,” she said, “you may stay. Sit down and then you may
escort me down into the hall.”
From this moment, the invisible barriers between them seemed to
disappear. Until now the Empress had been stiff and formal, but now she
seemed to have turned into another person. She started talking about God
and the world, and discussed amusingly the political and social situation
in Austria. Then she took her companion’s arm and leaned gently upon it
as they wandered for at least two hours through the hall and the
adjoining rooms, chatting uninterruptedly.
Though proud of the sensation created by the truly regal presence on
his arm, Fritz Pacher did not feel fully at ease. He was most carefully
avoiding paying court to her in an overly overt manner while saying
nothing that could be misinterpreted. It was evident to him that he had a
great lady on his arm, as he noticed how unaccustomed she was to being
pushed and bumped against in a crowd. When people failed to make
way, he could sense her trembling in every limb.
Young aristocrats who were present began to take an interest in the
couple as they felt sure that the lady belonged to their own world, but
only one of them seemed to suspect her identity and that was Count
Nicholas Esterházy, a great sportsman and the Master of the Fox Hounds
at Gödöllö.
Sisi obtained precise information from her companion as to his name,
profession, origin and career. She found his perfectly frank criticisms of
public affairs entertaining and often agreed with his views. And when at
last the conversation turned to discussion of Heine, Sisi’s favorite poet,
the young official quite won her heart and she said some nice things to
him, telling him how sympathetic, sensible and intelligent she had found
him.
“For the most part,” she said, “people are never anything other than
flatterers, and anyone who has learned to know them as I have cannot but
despise them. But you seem different. I now know who you are, but do
tell me now, who do you think I am? Where do you place me?”
“You? You are a great lady, a Princess at least. That is obvious from
your whole bearing.”

189
 Sisi laughed and he gradually became bolder, begging her to at least
to take off her glove and let him see her hand, even without any ring, as a
hand is so characteristic of its owner.
But Sisi refused.
"You will get to know me some time or another,” she said, “but not
today. We shall meet again. Would you perhaps come to Munich or
Stuttgart if I were to arrange to meet you there, as I should make you
aware that I have no home and am constantly traveling?”
“I will, of course, go anywhere you may ask me to,” he
replied.
Fritz Pacher was torn between a thousand emotions and thoughts.
Was this the Empress or not? ‘In any case,’ he thought, ‘I am in the
presence of a clever, cultured and engaged woman with a streak of
originality. So much is obvious. Nothing that is ordinary makes any
impression on her.’
And so the hours sped by like minutes. It was long past midnight and
growing later and later. Ida Ferenczy had approached several times but
the Empress had taken no notice of her. At last, however, it was time for
them to part. Sisi had taken note of Pracher’s address and promised to
write to him soon, saying that they would be sure to meet again.
“But you must promise me one thing.” she said. “Escort me to my
carriage but do not return to the ballroom afterwards. Your hand upon
it!"
The young man did exactly as the Empress asked. Ida Ferenczy now
joined them and the three descended the great staircase of the foyer
together. Here they waited a while until a cab was summoned.
And now his curiosity finally got the better of him.
“I should really like to know who you are, though,” he said, and
bending toward her, tried to lift the lace veil attached to her mask to
reveal the lower half of her face, whereupon Ida Ferenczy, in the utmost
consternation, uttered a shriek and threw herself between them.
At this moment the cab was announced. A hearty handshake was
exchanged, and in an instant the ladies in their masks had entered the
carriage, which at once drove off and the whole haunting vision vanished
into the darkness.
“Heavens!” said Sisi to Ida in alarm, “suppose he were to find out
who I am. We must not drive straight to the Hofburg. He might be
following us.”

190
 So Ida Ferenczy ordered the coachman to drive a long way out into
the suburbs, and there made him pull up to the entrance to some alley,
where she got out and looked around until she was satisfied that nobody
was following them, and then ordered the cabman to drive straight to the
Hofburg.
Meanwhile, the youthful hero of this adventure, who was twenty-six
years old, returned to his modest home in a most exalted state of mind
and knew no peace for the next few days. He spent his time roaming
around the Prater in the hope of meeting the Empress and walked around
and around the Hofburg on the off-chance of seeing her drive out. On
one occasion he did succeed in raising his hat to her as she drove past
quite close to him. She glanced at him and for a moment her face showed
a trace of agitation. The carriage had hardly gone by before she looked
through the peep-hole at the back, but at once let the flap fall again.
A week later, Fritz Pacher received a letter from Munich. The date in
the top right hand corner is in the Empress’s handwriting, the rest is
obviously disguised.

Dear friend!

You will be surprised to receive my first note from

Munich. I am spending a few hours here on my way
through, and am using the brief time of my stay here to
send you the sign of life I promised you. With what
longing you must have waited for it. Do not deny this
with your honest German nature. But have no fear, I am
not demanding any declarations. I know as well as you
do what has been passing through your mind since that
night. You have talked to a thousand women and girls
before, and even believed that you were amused by them,
but your spirit had never met with its kindred soul. And at
last, in a gorgeous dream, you found what you had been
seeking for years, only perhaps to lose it forever.

Fritz Pracher replied at once and asked Gabriele whether she ever
thought about him, and, if so, there were a thousand things he would like
to know: how, where, what, when. He wanted the woman in the yellow

191
domino to tell him how she spent her time, whom she mixed with
socially, whether he had any cause to be jealous and so on.
He took the letter to the head post office, where it was collected, and
two days later, in answer to his inquiries, he was told that the letter had
been claimed.
This little adventure provided Sisi and her reader with an amusing
subject of conversation for weeks to come. Ida Ferenczy was particularly
delighted because the Countess Festetics, who puffed herself up about
her highly confidential relationship with the Empress, had no idea of
what had taken place.

On February 27, the Emperor Franz Josef and Count Andrássy returned
from St. Petersburg, both fairly satisfied with the results of their visit.
Their reception had been excellent, although the real feelings of the Tsar
and of Russia toward Austria had undergone no essential change as
slights are not so readily forgotten. With regard to Count Bellegarde,
however, something had happened. The Emperor had given orders for it
to be broken gently to him that he must ask to be allowed to retire. The
Count believed this to be the work of the Empress and the Countess
Festetics on account of his anti-Hungarian views, and the fact that, out of
jealousy, he had allowed himself to be drawn into Court intrigues against
Andrássy. As a matter of fact they had no hand in the matter, which was
due to other causes.
Sisi’s account to the Emperor of the farewell audience that she had
granted to him was very brief.
“Bellegarde came today to take leave of me,” she wrote on March 9,
1874, “but as he asked no questions, I said nothing, which was at least
more convenient.”
The Empress had become very reticent by now.
“I am so careful as to what I say about others,” she said to the
Countess Festetics, “because I have suffered so much from what people
have said about me. Now, indeed, I believe only what I hear myself. I do
not want to do anyone any harm, but it is very painful, Marie, when one
has done nothing, to be made the target of malicious gossip, as I have
always been. A sort of indifference has come over me by now. I am very
cautious and I avoid contact with people, which can only be much more
agreeable to them as they do not like me, and it is easier for me.”

192
 “I cannot deny,” replied the Countess, “that everything is not as it
should be, but Your Majesty does not know how many people are
devoted to you and how happy they are when they see Your Majesty.”
“Oh yes,” said the Empress, “they are curious enough. When there is
any sight to see, everybody rushes to look at it, whether it is a monkey
dancing on a hurdy-gurdy or myself. So much for their love! I am not so
ready to believe in fidelity. I am not so vain as to imagine all that and it
is wiser to miss something than to deceive oneself.”
The only thing that distracted Sisi from all the unpleasantness was her
perfectly innocent little adventure at the masked ball. She was
determined not to keep the promised assignation, but planned to continue
the correspondence, so her letter in February was followed by another in
March, ostensibly written in London, which she did not really intend to
visit until late in the summer.

Dear friend!

How sorry I am for you! Without news of me for so long,

how desolate your life must have been, how the time must
have dragged!

But I could not help it. My spirit was exhausted and my

thoughts had lost all their bounce. Many a day I have sat
for hours at the window gazing out into the dismal fog,
only to turn frustrated once more and plunge from one
amusement to another.

You wonder whether I thought of you … I know what my

thoughts were and that is enough for me. I am not bound
to satisfy your curiosity, conceited creature, so you shall
hear nothing from me on that topic.

People praise London so highly, but I only know that I

find it intolerable.Shall I describe the sights to you? Read
Baedeker and that will save me the trouble. You want to
know what I do and how I live? It is not at all interesting.
A few old aunts, a spiteful lapdog, complaints about my
extravagances, and my sole recreation is a drive in Hyde

193
 Park every afternoon, and, in the evening, a party after
the theater.

And there you have my life in all its soulless desolation

and desperate boredom.

Yes, Fritz, even you would be a distraction here! What do

you say to that? Are you less vain for one day at least?
Only think of my weakness. I am homesick, homesick for
sunny, light-hearted Vienna, but, catlike, for the place
and not for the people.

And now sleep well. The clock in front of me says it is

past midnight. Are you dreaming of me at this moment or
are your songs full of longing reaching forth into the still
of the night? In the interests of your neighbors, I hope it
is the former.

My cousin has returned to her parents, so in future send

your letters to the following address: Mr. Leonard
Wieland, General Post Office, London.

With cordial greetings,

GABRIELE.

Sisi gave this letter to her sister the Queen of the Two Sicilies, who
was about to start out for England, and asked her to arrange for the
collection of any further letters that might be addressed there. This, she
thought, would be the best way of destroying all evidence of this further
correspondence and of keeping even her ladies-in-waiting in the dark.
When she had mentioned to Ida Ferenczy her first letter to Herr Fritz
Pacher, Ida had expressed her misgivings and begged the Empress not to
continue a correspondence that might so easily be misinterpreted.
This further letter raised a perfect storm of emotion in the heart of the
young man to whom it was addressed, and in his reply he attempted to
penetrate the mystery, while pretending it was no mystery to him,

194
whereupon he received another letter from Sisi in April, ostensibly
written in London.

Dear Friend,

I have been away in the country for a week and only

found your letter on my return. It amused me and that is
why I am replying so soon. Besides, I am curious about
this business.

You ask a terrible number of questions, but at the same

time you seem to think that you know everything
perfectly. Why should my name not be Gabriele? Have
you an aversion to that beautiful archangel’s name? Of
course, Friederike would be prettier, but it is too late to
change that now. Then again, you seem to have got it into
your head that I am not in London. If only I could be
back in Vienna, as I assure you I had much more fun
there!

Perhaps I may be able to get there for the month of May,

but I hardly think so. In fact, I fear I may be detained
here for the whole summer and fall. In that case you
might include England in your holiday trip and pay the
yellow domino a visit if we have not tired of each other
by that time.

You will like being here. There is so much to see, so much

that is interesting, particularly for one in your profession.
And as you were once a farmer, how these nice country
houses will appeal to you. From the wealthy lord’s great
establishment down to the simplest farmer’s cottage,
good taste is everywhere combined with what is
practical. Yes, the country is most beautiful, but I hate
London. It makes me melancholy and bitter.

I have said farewell to my old aunts and am now staying

with my brother. This does not interfere with the real

195
object of my stay here, and I am thus delivered from the
boredom of that society, including the lapdog, as, even at
the risk of incurring your displeasure, I must confess that
I have no feeling at all for dogs. To this you must ascribe
the fact that I have no idea to what breed your own dog
belongs. In order to enlighten me, you might send me a
photograph of yourself with your faithful companion.

And so you wish to know what I am reading … I read a

great deal, day after day, but quite unsystematically.
Indeed, my whole life is unsystematic. Only very seldom
do I come across a book that really appeals to me,
written as it were from my own soul, but lately one has
come into my hands and I thought I must write to you
about it: ‘Deutsche Liebe’ [‘German Love’ – stories
about love and adventure among ‘ordinary’ people] by
Muller. Please read it and tell me what you think of it. It
pleased me tremendously.

Do you know you are very indiscreet? You ask me for

nothing less than my biography. It certainly would not
bore you but I must know you better first. But this much I
will tell you today: that the most memorable time in my
life was a winter that I spent in the East, and that my
sweetest memories are bound up with that wondrous land
of legend.

While I am writing these lines, you are probably on the

shores of one of the Italian lakes, which are no less
beautiful in their own way. I know them too, but my visit
to them lacked that atmosphere of happiness that so
richly pervaded my stay in the Orient. I know that there,
too, you will still be thinking of me in spite of your
mother and sister. Unconsciously and unintentionally I
have woven myself into your life. Tell me, do you wish to
break the bonds? It can still be done now, but later, who
can tell?

196
 With cordial greetings,

GABRIELE.

The descriptions of England and the reference to her dislike of dogs

were attempts to send Fritz Pacher down a false trail, and so was the
reference to the East which she had not yet visited, unless she was
alluding to her visit to Corfu.
But the young man did not wish to seem a dupe, so in his reply to this
letter he risked an unmistakable reference to the person of the Empress,
and even dared to say that her name was neither Gabriele nor Friederike,
but could and should be Elisabeth!
He was punished by the abrupt cessation of the correspondence and
no yellow domino made its appearance on Shrove Tuesday. Sisi saw
Pacher on the Prater and at a flower show, but only as a member of the
public. She may have acknowledged his salute somewhat more
graciously than that of others, but she never spoke to him.
And soon the march of events obliterated the memory of this little
episode. On April 29, the Empress’s brother, Duke Karl Theodor,
married, as his second wife, the lovely and charming Maria José, Infanta
of Portugal. Sisi was delighted with this marriage as everyone told her
that it was the best choice her brother could possibly have made. She was
unable to attend the wedding, but sent a magnificent present, and when
she got to know her sister-in-law during her next visit to Possenhofen,
she was enchanted with her.
“I like Marie immensely,” she wrote to the Princess Gisela. “I
consider her a rare beauty and am never tired of looking at her.”
The reason why the Empress was unable to attend the wedding was
that Valerie was ill again and there were unpleasant scenes among the
child’s attendants. Miss Throckmorton was always saying nasty things
about people, and especially about her mistress, trying to come between
her and the child, who was, in any case, difficult to manage. This was too
much for the Empress. Where Valerie was concerned, she could stand no
nonsense and the Englishwoman was dismissed.

At the end of July, in response to an invitation from her sister, the

Empress decided to take her daughter to the Isle of Wight because it
offered invigorating swimming in the sea. She was determined to do her

197
best to avoid any official reception; this was her “vacation” and she
meant to enjoy it in peace. But, above all, she was anxious to escape
from the political intrigues that were now at their height in Vienna. First,
there was the Bohemian party that blamed Sisi for the fact that the
Emperor had not had himself crowned in Prague. Then there were those
who did not consider her pious enough and regarded her as the only
obstacle to a greater subordination of the State to the Church. Then there
were the “absolutists” and “centralists” who wanted to revert to
Archduchess Sophie’s policy and held Sisi solely responsible for
undermining it.
But, as a matter of fact, after the Ausgleich, Sisi no longer used her
great influence over the Emperor in favor of any further political
schemes whatsoever. Her one desire was that all should be well with her
husband and her children, and, whenever she could, she helped the
Emperor with her intelligence and her delicate tact. The Emperor liked to
discuss everything with her and set the highest store by her
judgment.
On July 28, the Empress started out for the Isle of Wight by way of
Strasburg and Le Havre. In Strasburg she wanted to see the cathedral, but
was afraid of being recognized, which always made her unhappy and
prevented her from enjoying things to the full. So she went there some
hours before the appointed time and found nobody there except a little
old woman who conducted her to a priest who acted as her guide around
the cathedral, and when they came to the tombs of the Habsburgs,
delighted Sisi by referring to the Habsburg lip as a sign of degeneracy.
Meanwhile, Frau Feifalik, the Empress’s hairdresser, emerged from
the Empress’s lodging to be greeted with respectful salutes which she
acknowledged by bowing to right and left. The Empress laughed as she
watched this scene from a distance and then gave the old woman a piece
of gold. But the old woman would not accept it as she had guessed by
now who she was.
“The honor and the joy,” she insisted, “are reward enough for me.”
“Your Majesty sees,” said Marie Festetics, “ that there are good
people in the world after all.”
“Yes,” replied the Empress sadly, “the people here do not hate me.”
For political reasons, the Empress did not stop in Paris and arrived on
the Isle of Wight on August 2, 1874, accompanied by the Countess
Festetics and Ida Ferenczy. The island was at its loveliest, with its

198
splendid oaks and laurels, magnolias and cedars, not to mention the
masses of flowers. And Steephill Castle, Ventnor, where she stayed with
her suite, was a charming spot.
The Empress had hardly arrived before the Queen of England drove
over from Osborne to visit her. Queen Victoria was quite dazzled by
Sisi’s beauty. She had never seen her before, and only knew her from
photographs and pictures, none of which, as she now found, did her
justice or gave even the remotest impression of her beauty. Many reports
about the Empress’s unsociability and moodiness had gone the rounds at
the English Court, so her visit was met with some apprehension. For her
part, Sisi was interested in the celebrated John Brown who had been the
Prince Consort’s favorite servant, and was therefore accorded such a
privileged position by the Queen. As for little Valerie, the Queen
frightened her. “I have never seen such a fat lady,” she said.
The Empress’s impressions are contained in a letter written to her
husband from Steephill Castle, Ventnor, on August 2.
“The Queen was very kind,” she wrote, “and said nothing that was
not amiable, but she doesn’t seem very sympathetic toward me. The
Prince of Wales was kind, nice-looking and as deaf as a post, and the
Crown Princess, who is staying three or four miles away from her
mother, is just as one would expect. Their quarters are small but very
pretty, and they are prolonging their stay here. She is coming to see me
tomorrow. I was most polite, I must say, and everybody seemed quite
astonished. But now I have done my duty. They quite understand that I
want to be quiet and they have no wish to intrude further.”
A few days after her first visit, however, Queen Victoria invited Sisi
to dinner. The Empress excused herself in a polite letter and wrote to
Franz Josef that she thought that the Queen, too, would be glad to be
relieved of having to make all the effort.
But this was not the case. On August 11, Queen Victoria paid another
visit to Sisi and renewed her invitation by word of mouth. The Empress
again declined it and this led to a slight coolness.
“I did so,” she confessed in a letter to her mother, “because that sort
of thing bores me.”
The Empress found it more amusing to roam about London incognito.
At this time of year society was out of town. “Everybody is away,” she
wrote. “The streets with the finest houses seem dead.”

199
 But this is what she liked as it meant that at least she was not
interfered with. She had to call upon one or two people, however, among
others the Duchess of Edinburgh and the Duchess of Teck. In the evening
she would mount the famous white Coronation horse from Budapest that
she had brought with her and go for a ride in Hyde Park with Count
Beust, the Austrian Ambassador. Horses were brought from all around
for her inspection and they were naturally not cheap ones.
“The one I should most like to have,” she wrote to Franz Josef, “costs
twenty-five thousand gulden!” hastily adding, “so it is naturally out of
the question.”
Accompanied by Marie Festetics, she visited the gigantic city in a
mad rush as though she wanted to see everything at once. She visited
Madame Tussaud’s famous waxworks, where she found a figure of her
husband. “Vastly amusing,” was her opinion of the show, “but very
gruesome in parts.” She stayed there more than an hour and a half and
could hardly tear herself away.
She also visited Bedlam, at that time the largest lunatic asylum in the
world, ten times the size of the one in Munich. Here Sisi found herself in
a whole world of disordered minds. According to the Countess Festetics,
the deepest impression was made upon her by a young girl whom she
saw seated on the grass under a blossoming tree in the beautiful garden,
making wreaths, which she then placed solemnly on her head with a
calm composure indicative of megalomania, which was the form taken
by her insanity.
Next, a madman spoke to the Empress, begging her to set him free.
“Why are you here?” she asked in a kindly, gentle tone.
“The Jesuits have it in for me,” he replied, “and as an excuse to lock
me up, they accused me of stealing St. Peter’s purse in the street. Of
course that would have been a serious crime. But it’s not true,” he added,
“as, you see, I am St. Peter myself.”
The Empress listened to him with tense interest and replied quite
calmly, “In that case you will be sure to get out soon.”
After this visit the rushing about began again. The Empress made an
excursion to Melton and Belvoir [pronounced “Beaver”] Castle, where
the Duke of Rutland had his kennels, and on August 26, 1874, she
hunted for the first time on English soil. She spent the night at Melton
and visited the stables, with the result that the idea of spending a whole
season there took such possession of her and the possibility was

200
seriously discussed. Several gentlemen from Austria-Hungary joined in
the hunt, including Count Tisza, Count Tassilo Festetics and the two
Baltazzi brothers, the sons of a Levantine banker, who had first come
into prominence in Vienna on the occasion of the Empress’s marriage.
The Countess Festetics regarded these two gentlemen with suspicion
as they did not belong to any of the noble families of Austria-Hungary
and were said to have “smuggled” themselves into Court society via their
sister, the wife of the Austro-Hungarian diplomat, Baron Vetsera, whom
she had met at the Embassy in Constantinople.
“Great caution is necessary,” noted the Countess. “They are clever
people, brothers of a Baroness Vetsera, who suddenly made her
appearance in Vienna, intelligent, rich, and all having the same beautiful,
interesting eyes. No one knows exactly where these people come from
with all their money, but they are pushy and make me feel
uncomfortable. The brothers are devoted to sport, ride splendidly and
insinuate themselves everywhere. But they are dangerous to us, as they
are quite English, and on account of the horses!”
The two days’ hunting was so exhausting that even the men were
dead beat and could hardly stand afterwards. But Sisi was in her element
and enjoyed herself so thoroughly that she did not feel in the least tired,
and laughed heartily when, in spite of all his efforts and his unbounded
respect for her, Count Tisza kept nodding off to sleep in her presence.
She was quite sad when it was time to return to the Isle of Wight, but
the glorious crossing over the Solent enchanted her, although it was very
rough and her companions were very seasick. She herself was a splendid
sailor and began to crave a long sea voyage. The passion for travel, an
inheritance from her father, stirred in her blood.
“What I should like best would be to pay a short visit to America,”
she wrote to her mother. “The sea tempts me whenever I look at it.”
At Ventnor, she resumed swimming in the sea. Whenever the
Empress entered the water, vast crowds would gather on neighboring
cliffs and watch her through binoculars. To guard against this a little
stratagem was devised. Marie Festetics and one of the maids had to put
on flannel bathing gowns exactly the same as the one worn by the
Empress and enter the water at the same time.
“It is such a pity you cannot come,” wrote Sisi to her husband. “After
all those maneuvers you might really take a fortnight off to see London,
then dash up to Scotland to visit the Queen, and then have a little hunting

201
somewhere near London. We have horses and everything here, so it
would be a pity not to use them. Do think it over for a day or two before,
with your usual stubbornness, you say no.”
She also told the Emperor that Lady Dudley had presented her with a
hunter, although she had tried to avoid this by explaining it was not
customary for her to accept presents. The lady was not to be denied,
however, and sent her the horse which was a beautiful creature, but very
large. The Empress wrote to Franz Josef, “Even you would look like the
dot of an ‘i’ on its back.”
She now took frequent rides with the daughter of the English riding
master, Allen, who owed his position to the Queen of the Two Sicilies’s
recommendation, and of whom Sisi said that he was, “if possible, an
even more perfect gentleman” than old Holmes. She was also pleased
that the Queen was now at Balmoral and not at Osborne, so that she was
spared further visits. As for Franz Josef, he followed the Empress’s
accounts of her stay with great interest, but it was impossible for him to
join her as every hour of his time was already booked up for months
ahead.
Sisi accepted the situation with regret. “I beg you not to let your plans
be upset,” she wrote to him on September 26. “Sport is so essential to
you as a recreation that I should be inconsolable if my return were to
deprive you of even one day of it. I need no demonstrations to convince
me of how much you love me and it is because we do not put each other
out that we are so happy together.”

She now decided to return home as she did not want to be separated from
her husband any longer. On the way to Vienna she proposed to visit her
old home, although she was alarmed at the prospect of having to meet
Ludwig II.
“If only the King would leave me in peace!” she wrote to the
Emperor before leaving.
On arriving in Boulogne, they were subjected to a terrible gale and
the howling of the wind quite drowned out the roar of the waves. It was a
wonderful spectacle and, in order to enjoy it better, Sisi and the Countess
Festetics rashly went down to the beach. Within an instant their
umbrellas were turned inside out and they themselves were peremptorily
thrown flat onto the sand by the wind. They struggled to their feet with
difficulty, but could not advance a single step and were already almost

202
worn out when a coastguard came hurrying up, gesticulating furiously,
and having no idea of who they were, simply seized hold of both of them
by the arm and dragged them away. It was not until he found a gold coin
in his hand that he became more agreeable and explained that on days
like these nobody was allowed onto the beach, and that if a policeman
had seen them there, it would have cost him his job.
On her way home, Sisi stopped at Baden-Baden, where the German
Emperor and Empress met her at the station. Their daughter, the Grand
Duchess of Baden, went into raptures over her beauty, whereupon Kaiser
Wilhelm I rubbed his left side and said, “It is better not to look at her too
long as it warms one’s heart far too much.”
She next traveled on to Possenhofen, where she was unable to escape
the King of Bavaria. This time he made himself particularly agreeable,
after his own strange fashion, not only to her but also to her ladies-in-
waiting. So, at about half-past-one in the morning, he sent the Countess
Festetics a magnificent bouquet of roses, delicately graded from deep
crimson to the purest white, the aide-de-camp who brought it having
strict instructions to present it to her in person. The Countess was woken
up and was agonized to be placed in such a compromising situation,
especially as the house was built of wood and the Empress's room was
underneath her own.
They left on the following day, and as King Ludwig was to be at the
station in Munich to see them off, the unfortunate Countess had to take
this bouquet, the size of a small table, into the compartment with her,
where it proved to be a great trial throughout the journey. The King, who
seemed to Sisi to have put on a lot of weight, told her about the special
performances for which he was preparing in his theater, the most
interesting of which, in the Empress’s opinion, was the one that took
place in the days of Louis XIV, with a great hunting scene in which lots
of dogs were to take part. The climax was to be a downpour of rain using
real water.
After a few minutes’ conversation, the King asked the Empress’s
permission to accompany her a little way on her journey, which was a
most unwelcome proposal as he got on her nerves and produced a more
and more shocking impression upon her as it became increasingly
evident that his brother Otto was on the verge of complete insanity.
Marie Festetics had to come to her aid, which she did by explaining to
the King that the Empress’s hound Shadow was so bad-tempered that he

203
would not tolerate anybody he did not know. Her Majesty, she said, was
in mortal terror in case the dog should bite him. At last the King
understood and allowed her to leave without him, but his beautiful eyes,
with their strange suggestion of cruelty, haunted the Empress and her
companion for a long time afterwards.

The Empress spent the closing days of the year riding with the Emperor
at Pardubitz and hunting at Gödöllö, and then, after the turn of the year,
came the carnival celebrations on Twelfth Night involving those public
appearances for which the Empress had such a profound distaste. It is
curious that she should have found Court balls such a torture and at least
shows that the excessive vanity attributed to her was largely a myth.
Those in attendance on her were always in transports of delight at the
sensation produced by her charming appearance although she was now
thirty-seven years old.
After one such ball, Marie Festetics, whose enthusiasm for her knew
no bounds, compared her to a swan, a lily, a gazelle, or the legendary
Melusine.
“At the same time queen and fairy, yet very much a woman, majestic
yet childlike, girlish yet august, gracious and dignified – that is what she
is, to speak quite objectively and without exaggeration. What a pity that
no picture can capture this and that there are people who have not seen
her. I was proud to see the Empress so much admired! But such a ball is
terribly tiring for her. To go on talking for four hours in all that heat and
noise! And not a soul gives that aspect of it a thought. People feel it quite
natural that she should work like a machine.”
But it was all a great struggle for Sisi and she simply had to fight for
the right to gratify her insistent need to live apart from the world. The
blue veil and the fan were used more and more often. When she stepped
into her carriage she sent away everybody who chanced to be near. In the
gardens she would retreat to the pergolas where no one could see her,
and when not actually “in harness,” as she called her formal dress, she
hid herself whenever she could. Oblivious of her inherent shyness,
people misinterpreted this and imagined that she was doing something
furtive, although they would have been far less imaginative if she had
not behaved so mysteriously.
Marie Festetics racked her brain to think how she could help her. The
Countess had already received several offers of marriage and had refused

204
them all, but she often wondered whether she was doing the right thing
to sacrifice love, a home and a life of her own for the sake of the
Empress. But then she remembered how Sisi had begged her never to
leave her and resolved never to surrender the cause that Andrássy and
Deák had placed in her hands. The Empress really did need the support
of trustworthy women friends.
Sisi had a calendar of the simple sort used by Hungarian peasants
(‘István Bácsi Naptára’ or ‘Brother Stephen’s Calendar’), in which she
occasionally jotted remarks or little poems that had pleased her, or
sometimes verses of her own.
For instance, in March she composed a quatrain reflecting her mood
of the moment entitled ‘Ruhelos’ [Restless], of which the following is a
rough translation:

Great wishes must to greater wishes yield,

And never can content the heart possess.
For when you think your happiness attained
Lo, it has ceased to be your happiness.

Marie Festetics admonished her, telling her that she should not
always yield to her whims, but should rather control herself and try to
find contentment by accepting her limitations.
The Empress’s reply came in the form of her entering into her
calendar more verses that she had written, entitled ‘Victory over Self’
[Selbstbeherrschung]:

And must I, then, myself constrain?

Would this, then, profit me?
But who would vanquished be, I pray,
Should I the conqueror be?

A foolish robber, sure, is he

Who thinks to gain more loot
By lying ambushed in the woods
Only to rob … himself!

Her preference for Budapest and dread of returning to Vienna

remained unchanged.

205
 “I am really desperate at the thought of it,” she wrote to her mother in
January, 1875. “Life is so quiet here without relatives and other plagues,
whereas in Vienna there is the whole Imperial family. Besides, here I am
as free as in the countryside. I can go for walks and drives alone etc.”
Franz Josef was an exception to these strictures as Sisi was on the
best of terms with her husband at this time. She was quite depressed
when, in April 1875, the Emperor went to Trieste and Venice to return
the King of Italy’s visit, and then, for political and military reasons, went
on to Southern Dalmatia, which was reputed to be mostly uncivilized and
in a revolutionary frame of mind.
Sisi wept bitterly when they parted.
“I have an ominous feeling that something is going to happen to you,”
she said.
On the evening of April 2, Marie Festetics was at the theater when the
Empress sent for her to return home on the grounds that she felt
compelled to write a letter that very night to General von Beck, who was
accompanying the Emperor. In this letter, which was dictated to the
Countess, she held the General responsible for the Emperor’s life and
begged him not to leave his side for a single moment.
The Empress now redoubled her physical exercise as she always did
when she was nervous and overwrought. She was now at the height of
her mania for horses. She was no longer satisfied with hunting and
practicing systematically at the riding school for several hours a day, but
aimed at higher things, hoping to achieve the level of perfection she had
witnessed at the circus.
It so happened that Jakob Renz, founder of the famous circus of the
same name, was in Vienna with his troupe. The son of a rope dancer, he
had succeeded in raising his profession to a high artistic level and
developed his circus into a world-famous spectacle at which people
marveled at his glorious horses that had been trained to consummate
perfection. The public was especially enthusiastic about his daughter,
Elise, and so was the Empress. One of Renz’s trainers, who was called
Hüttemann, entered her service. A small, circular riding school was built
next to the royal stables and three real circus horses were procured.
These could perform all sorts of tricks and among them was the famous
‘Avolo’ who would kneel down with the Empress on his back.
Sisi now began taking lessons from Fraulein Elise Renz. The only
thing she feared was that her absent husband might object to her

206
activities because of public opinion, so she hurriedly assured him that
Fraulein Elise was “most respectable,” and, according to the German
Ambassador’s accounts, gave lessons to ladies in Berlin.
Sisi was constantly going to the circus, either alone or with Valerie,
and when she did, the performances went on forever, as Renz would
introduce a number of extra tricks in her honor, which she enjoyed like a
child. Not only the horses, but wild beasts too, roused her enthusiasm,
but she was bored by pantomime and that kind of thing.

On May 15, the Emperor returned from Dalmatia, to Sisi’s great joy,
because, in spite of all the gossip, she was still very much devoted to her
husband. But her nature being no ordinary one, those who could only
judge others by themselves always found something to criticize her for.
And now that Gisela was married, and Rudolf, who had reached
seventeen, was increasingly absorbed in the training that was necessary
for the fulfilment of his future duties, she felt lonely and out of her
element, and this encouraged her inborn craving for foreign travel.

207
Chapter 10

Riding in Foreign Parts (1875-1882)

During the summer of 1875, the Empress was asked to ascertain whether
the Princess Amalie of Coburg would consent to marry her youngest
brother. Marie Festetics successfully conducted the negotiations and the
betrothal took place.
“So Mapperl is to be a husband,” wrote the Empress to her mother.
“Queer taste for one so young as he is to forfeit his liberty, but one never
knows how to value what one has until one has lost it … Of course, you
will not go to the wedding on account of your head. Nor shall I as I am
too lazy and shrink from seeing people.”
After short visits to Garatshausen and Ischl, Sisi felt a desire to travel,
and Valerie provided an excellent pretext. Widerhofer had once more
prescribed swimming in the sea for the Archduchess, and this time they
wanted to go to France for a change, to some quiet little watering-place
in Normandy.
The Emperor objected that the Monarchy was not on the best of terms
with the new Republic, which harbored anarchists of every sort.
“Something will happen to you there,” he said, “and besides, they
will not be exactly delighted in Berlin.”
The Empress insisted upon going, but the Emperor’s remark gave her
food for thought, and between May 22 and June 8 she made her will,
after which she started out for Sassetôt-les-Mauconduits in Normandy,
strong in the conviction that nobody would touch anyone who, like her,
had never injured anybody in her life.
Karl Linger, her secretary, who was in charge of her traveling
arrangements, had gone on and taken a simply furnished château
belonging to a rich ship owner, with a beautiful park full of great trees
and splendid masses of hydrangeas. Sisi took some of her favorite horses
with her and swam early every morning, walking down to the sea from
her bathing hut, accompanied by her two great dogs Mahomed and
Shadow, between screens of sail cloth to shield her from curious eyes.
In the afternoons she went on long expeditions to châteaux and places
in the surrounding countryside, most of which, like Sassetôt itself, had
been in the hands of the nouveaux riches since the revolution.

208
 “Democrats, republicans and parvenus,” commented the Countess
Festetics, “lead a scandalous life there, a perfect rabble with all the vices
of the old nobility and none of its virtues.”
Sisi soon found that she could not go around unnoticed.
“Republic or no Republic,” she wrote, “people here are more
intrusive than in any other country.”
She met with constant difficulties when out riding. In her thoughtless
way, she would ride over cultivated fields, and this led to much
unpleasantness, which the Republican L' Univers of August 17, 1875,
talked up into being almost an affair of state.
The Empress and the Austrian Embassy in Paris denied all rumors of
her insulting behavior toward French farmers, but there really was some
substance to their complaints, as she frequently complained herself in her
letters to the Emperor.
“The people here,” she wrote, “are so insolent and badly behaved that
they followed me around yesterday again, so I drove straight to Fécamp
and returned here by boat. While out riding, too, I have often met with
aggression on the roads and in the villages. The children, the drivers of
vehicles – everybody tries hard to frighten the horses, and if, as one
naturally would, one enters a field where no harm can be done, the
peasants are dreadfully surly. I really do not feel much inclined to go to
Paris, but Nopcsa is afraid that if I do not, I may make a bad impression.
What do you think?”
Sisi had asked Mr. Allen, who had given her riding lessons the
previous year, to come over from England, but the Countess Festetics
had a bad feeling about him. It is remarkable how she always spotted
people in advance who were likely to have a bad influence on her
mistress. She would confide these feelings to her diary on the very day
they entered the Empress’s life, so it was not a judgment she arrived at
after-the-fact, which proves that she had a true instinct, an exceptionally
keen gift for observation, and a remarkable intellect. In fact, she
undoubtedly had more brains and intelligence than any other woman in
the Empress’s immediate circle.
Mr. Allen was first and foremost a horseman, and was bold and
vigorous, or in the eyes of the Countess Festetics, rough. When he
wanted a horse to do something, he would simply force it to obey. Once
he was trying to show the Empress how he could ride a horse straight
into the surf. The horse tried to refuse, and when Allen used the spur and

209
slashed it with the whip, it reared, turned head over heels, and both horse
and rider disappeared beneath the waves. A good swimmer pulled Mr.
Allen out of the water and the horse managed to save itself, while the
Empress looked on speechless and as white as a ghost.
As they rode home, she remarked to the Countess Festetics, “Don't be
alarmed, Marie, that is a trick I shall not try to imitate.”
Allen was not the right man for Sisi; he was so keen that he expected
too much of her. He had a course with obstacles laid out in a park near
the château, where the Empress practiced jumping regularly, until one
day she, too, met with the inevitable accident. A new horse had just
arrived, and on September 11, 1875, Sisi wished to try it out. Allen had
been riding it before her and it was overly tired. They came to quite a
low obstacle, which Sisi expected to clear quite easily, but her horse took
off far too violently, stumbled and came down on its knees. Sisi was
thrown with such violence that her pommel broke. Her faithful Bayzand,
the manager of her stud of hunters, was standing at the far end of the
course, waiting for her to complete the round. Suddenly he saw her horse
gallop up riderless, rushed to the spot and found Sisi lying unconscious
on the ground. Everybody was out swimming except the Countess
Festetics, who suddenly heard Bayzand shouting, “Madame, a doctor!
Quickly! There has been an accident in the park.”
Dr. Widerhofer hurried out half-dressed, while Sisi was carried to a
garden seat, where she sat with a great smudge on her forehead,
completely dazed, with her beautiful eyes fixed and glassy. They
sprinkled water on her forehead and spoke with her. At last she raised her
eyes and seemed to recognize the Countess, as she said falteringly in a
dull, scarcely audible voice, “Don’t cry, Marie, please. It hurts me to see
you like that.” Then she continued after a pause with, “But what
happened?”
“Your Majesty has had a fall.”
“But I have not been riding. What time is it?”
“Half-past-ten, Your Majesty.”
“In the morning? But I have never ridden at that sort of time before!”
Then she looked down at her clothing and asked wonderingly, “Where is
the horse?”
They led it up to her with its knees cut and bleeding.
“Oh! Why is its skin all torn?”
“On account of the fall, Your Majesty.”

210
 “But I cannot remember falling. Have you got any carrots?”
The Empress tried to get up and give the horse some food, but when
she found that she could not move, she began to believe that something
bad had really happened.
“Where is Valerie?” she asked. “And the Emperor? And where are
we?”
“In Normandy, Your Majesty.”
“Why, what are we doing in Normandy? If it is true that I have been
thrown, then I am just an idiot. Will I always be one from now on? But
please do not alarm the Emperor.”
Slight symptoms of concussion soon appeared: violent headaches
requiring ice, nausea and a sleepless night. Widerhofer examined her and
said bluntly, “If your head is not better within twenty-four hours, your
hair must come off.”
The Countess Festetics was horrified to hear this, as to touch those
glorious masses of glossy curls seemed to her like murder.
Ida Ferenczy never left Sisi’s side, and when Widerhofer banished her
from the room, she and Marie Festetics sat on the steps outside and kept
vigil.
They telegraphed Franz Josef, who was terribly alarmed and wanted
to come at once, although when, two days before, the Empress had asked
him to come to Sassetôt, he had said this was absolutely impossible for
political reasons. As the news improved, Andrássy begged him not to go
as it might lead to complications. So he stayed at home and wrote his
wife touching letters.
“Most heartfelt thanks to Almighty God that things are going so much
better. I cannot rid myself of the thought of what might have happened.
What on earth should I do without you, the good angel of my life?”
The Empress’s slight concussion was soon cured, but her pleasure in
Sassetôt was spoiled and she could hardly wait until it was time to leave.
Her answer to the Emperor’s letter was as follows.
“I am sorry to have given you such a fright, but you and I are really
prepared for such accidents. I am quite well now. Widerhofer is terribly
strict but he will let me leave here as soon as possible.” She was already
making arrangements for riding at Gödöllö, and wanted all her horses
and hunters to be sent there in readiness for her. “I shall be very glad to
have some more horses again,” she went on. “I had too few here to work
properly, and possibly fatigue may have had something to do with

211
Zoave’s summersault.” She meant to go out riding in public again as
soon as possible, she said, as she was proud to be able to demonstrate
that she had not lost her nerve “on account of a tumble like that.”
The Emperor sent an aide-de-camp with instructions never to let her
out of his sight, and asked her to visit Paris on her way home as the
whole world was talking about her, and Andrássy thought that the
President would consider it a slight if she did not.
In a book entitled ‘The Secret of an Empress (London, 1914),’ and
crammed with inaccuracies, a certain so-called Countess Zanardi-Landi
invented a story that Sisi had given birth to a child at Sassetôt, which
was concealed under the pretext of a riding accident. But the authoress of
this thick tome did not even take the trouble to ascertain exactly in which
year the Empress was there, and alleges that she herself was born there in
1882, whereas the Empress was only there in 1875. This book, which
sets out to prove that the authoress was Sisi’s daughter, appeared during
the worst days of war psychosis in 1914. Any allegation that the Empress
ever had a secret child must be utterly rejected as a complete fabrication.
There were many witnesses to the Empress’s riding accident, but not
even the slightest credible proof in support of such an assertion.

On September 26, 1875, Sisi arrived in Paris fully restored to health and
in good spirits. The President, Marshal de MacMahon, had tried to pay
his respects to her at Vernon as she passed through, but she was asleep,
so he did not disturb her.
Sisi rushed around the city from morning until night looking at the
sights, as she always did in foreign towns. She was horrified by anything
that suggested the presence of mold, dust, physical decay or gloom, and
loved light, sunshine, art, youth, beauty and strength. For the same
reason she dreaded growing old and tried to postpone the aging process
through physical exercise and sport and unremitting attention to her
health. Her favorite forms of art were statues, especially Greek ones. She
was in ecstasies over the lovely face of the Venus de Milo and her
irresistible grace, although she could not reconcile herself to the classical
ideal of beauty that preferred rounder shapes to slender hips. Of course
she visited Les Invalides, and since guides made her nervous, she went
alone with Marie Festetics to pay homage to Napoléon, whose genius
filled her with awe. They stood for a long time before Lucien
Bonaparte’s splendid sarcophagus, imagining it to be the Emperor

212
Napoléon’s, until another visitor overheard their remarks and pointed out
their mistake, leading them to the Emperor Napoléon’s simple porphyry
[rock] sarcophagus, on which a fresh bunch of flowers had been laid.
Sisi knelt before it reverently and later remarked, “When people want
to say something really withering about him, they say that he was great
but ruthless. I always think how many people are ruthless without being
great, including myself.”
She continued her round of museums and palaces, châteaux and
gardens. What amused her most was a fine park with elephants, ostriches
and camels that people could ride. She did not manage to do as much as
she would have liked, but her ladies and Baron Nopsca did, while she
took a childish pleasure in watching them.
She had quite forgotten her accident and would very much have liked
to go to the Opera House and visit the famous Bal Mabille, which had a
somewhat risqué reputation, but she didn’t dare. Nevertheless, she sent
Nopcsa, Marie and Ida there, and they returned horrified and indignant at
what they had seen, causing her to go into fits of laughter on hearing
their accounts of it.
On the very next day, however, she was sad and upset when she
visited the chapel erected on the spot where the Crown Prince Ferdinand
Philippe d’Orléans, son of Louis Philippe, had been killed in a carriage
accident at the age of only twenty-three.
“It shows," she remarked, “that what God ordains for any man is
bound to happen. He went out quietly for a drive. Who could have
supposed that he would never return alive? You would like me never to
ride again. But whether I do or not, I shall die just when I am destined to
do so.”
On the same day she went out riding in the Bois de Boulogne with
her husband’s aide-de-camp in front of a large group of people and
jumped a few barriers. She was pale and rather tired after this, but had
recovered her good spirits.
The King of Bavaria was deeply affected by the news of her accident
and wrote to the Crown Prince Rudolf in his usual extravagant style.
“Fortunate and enviable one, to whom it is granted to spend so much
time with the august Empress, pray lay me at her feet and beseech her in
my name graciously to remember her faithful slave, who always honored
her from of old and will do forever. It was a great comfort to me when
Ludwig [the Empress’s brother] sent me an assurance from Gödöllö last

213
October that she would curb her impetuosity in riding. Never in my life
should I recover from my grief if any accident were to befall her. God
forbid such a thing! And may he preserve you and me from such an
appalling experience! I will have your portrait framed so that I may
always have it before my eyes, together with that of the Empress.
Because nobody on earth is so dear to me as you and she are. Please
remember me cordially to the Emperor. I am spending these glorious
winter days among the mountains, absorbed in fascinating books, which
are my dearest pleasure.”
On returning to Gödöllö, where she was joined by her brother Ludwig
and his daughter, Sisi picked up the threads of her peaceful country life,
interspersed with a great deal of riding.
Franz Josef was overjoyed at having the Empress back again “whole
and sound,” but he warned her to be more careful. She was joined by the
Crown Prince Rudolf, whose tutors spoke highly of him, although the
Court dignitaries pointed to his high-minded views as evidence that he
had not yet digested the teachings of his liberal-minded professors.
On November 19, Sisi’s name day, a little dance with parlor games
was arranged in Valerie’s apartments in which Sisi took part
wholeheartedly, so enjoying herself in a childlike way that her sudden
gloomy moments seemed hardly credible. Yet even so slight a cause as
the death of her faithful dog Shadow sufficed to bring one on. She
mourned him as a dear old friend and had him buried in the garden at
Gödöllö, where his grave was marked by a headstone.
In November 1875, Count Grünne was removed from his position as
Master of the Horse, and with him vanished one of the last traces of the
Archduchess Sophie’s régime. The Empress now no longer shied away
from approaching those women of the Court who had formerly been
entirely on her mother-in-law’s side, and in 1876 the Landgravine
Therese von Fürstenberg took the place of Frau von Schaffgotsch as a
lady-in-waiting, and before she had held this position for more than a
month or two, she had to admit that as soon as anyone came into close
personal contact with Sisi she could not help falling under her spell.
At the end of January, news arrived that the great Hungarian
statesman Deák was lying at death’s door. Sisi would have liked to have
visited him on his deathbed, but this was not allowed, and on January 31
she could only pay a last tribute to him as he lay in state, looking like

214
some lovely genius of mourning as her tears went straight to every
Hungarian’s heart.
In March, she was again seized with a restless desire to travel. It had
been one of her great wishes to hunt in England and now her desire was
fulfilled. Early in March 1876, she started out for Easton Neston,
Towcester, where Linger had rented a fine old country seat with a
splendid park quite near another attractive hunting lodge where the
Queen of the Two Sicilies was staying. In addition to her immediate suite
she was joined by a little band of horsemen from home who had always
been devoted to her, such as Prince Rudolf Liechtenstein, Count Hans
and Count Heinrich Larisch, Ferdinand Kinsky, Tassilo Festetics, Baron
Orczy and others.
While in London Sisi expressed a wish to be received by Queen
Victoria, but the answer came back, “The Queen cannot receive her. She
is too busy.” This was Queen Victoria’s little revenge for Sisi’s repeated
refusals of her invitations to dinner the previous year. Sisi had long since
forgotten these incidents and was indignant.
“Imagine if I were so ill-bred!” she wrote to Franz Josef. “But
everybody whom I visited this afternoon was ashamed because I made
myself very agreeable. I have seen them all now.”
The Empress continued on her way to Easton Neston, where she
hunted the very day after her arrival, going out with the famous Bicester
and Duke of Grafton’s hunts. Next came a visit to Earl Spencer’s
splendid country house, full of portraits of his ancestors by Rembrandt,
Van Dyck, Gainsborough, Romney and others, and with magnificent
works of art on every side. In this setting, which suited her so well, Lady
Spencer, the “Faerie Queen” as she was called, gave a lunch party in
Sisi’s honor.
The Empress was in the saddle for hours on end and her suite was
always in a state of considerable anxiety. But Sisi threw herself into this
novel sport on unfamiliar soil and among complete strangers with spirit
and passion. Once again the old rule was shown to be true that what one
does well one enjoys doing. The English watched her ride to hounds with
some misgivings as it was hard to believe that such a lovely Empress
could jump and gallop well enough to hunt. Two picked horsemen,
Colonel Hunt and Captain Middleton, a friend of Earl Spencer’s, were
told to ride ahead of the Empress to guide her, but the Captain was by no
means pleased with this mission.

215
 “What is an Empress to me?” he asked. “How can I look after her? I
will do it, of course, but I would rather go my own way.”
He quickly changed his mind. He was one of the best riders in
England and soon saw that this Empress was a keen horsewoman, and
what is more, made an incomparably charming sight on horseback.
On March 12, Sisi was expected at Windsor by Queen Victoria, who,
having administered her lesson, was now ready to receive her, but the
Queen felt somewhat uncomfortable with Sisi and the two ladies had
little to say to each other. The visit was kept as short as possible, and on
the thirteenth the Empress moved on to Leighton Buzzard to hunt with
the Ferdinand Rothschilds. She had been persuaded to do so by the
Queen of the Two Sicilies who had her reasons for wishing to obtain this
honor for that family. A sudden snowstorm made hunting impossible, so
the Empress visited the racing stables instead. When the evening came,
the Queen of the Two Sicilies tried to persuade her to stay the night, but
in spite of all the efforts made by the Rothschilds to extend her visit, Sisi
returned to London the same evening so as to be in the shires again by
the fourteenth.
The next time she was out with the hounds, it was Colonel Hunt who
was designated to guide her. He recommended to the Empress to try a
certain light chestnut horse that had so far behaved very well, but this
time it fell under Sisi at the first jump. She wanted to mount it again but
the Colonel firmly forbade it.
“Very well,” she said, “I will ride another horse today, but I would
like to buy this one all the same,” to which the Colonel replied, “Oh no,
your Majesty, I would not sell it you for the whole of Austria.”
There was a field of no less than a hundred. The Empress’s presence
was a great attraction, and people crowded to the spot not only to hunt
but to look on. Sisi was in the best of spirits and absolutely untiring.
“Other people,” said the Count Festetics, “ride four times a week. We
ride every day.”
“So far,” wrote Sisi to the Emperor, “I have not known a single
moment of fatigue. None of your horses are any good as they are slow
and spiritless. One needs quite different material here. I am constantly
being asked whether you might not be coming out here some time. After
all, everybody has a right to a vacation occasionally.”
Sisi also attended every steeplechase in the neighborhood and would
have liked to take part in them all herself. She presented a fine silver cup

216
with the inscription, “Presented by the Countess of Hohenembs,” which,
to her great joy, was won by Captain Middleton. This officer, who was
then thirty, had won his first steeplechase eleven years before at the age
of nineteen, thereby beginning a brilliant series of victories. His
Christian names were William George, but everybody called him “Bay,”
either on account of his red-brown hair and dark complexion or after the
famous horse Bay that won the Derby in 1836. Sisi admired his skill and
observed with a critical eye how her own countrymen rode.
“Fritz Metternich and Count Wolkenstein were so full of fire last
Tuesday,” she wrote to Ida Ferenczy, “that they not only jumped
everything that came their way but went out of their way to look for
obstacles. The latter fell twice in succession and came out of a swampy
brook in such a state that his gray horse looked black and he himself like
a Moor.”
Sisi felt particularly well here. She was tanned “like a wild hare” by
the March sun and wind. Her face was covered with freckles, but she felt
fresh and healthy, and enjoyed going about among people without all the
fuss that usually surrounded her and made people everywhere show their
most boring side. Everybody seemed independent, lively and interesting
here, including the men from her own country. All burdensome, servile
cringing was banished from this circle, which the Empress called her
“colony.”
But all things must come to an end and she had to go home.

On April 5, she arrived in Vienna, where, in his happiness at seeing his

wife home again safe and sound, Franz Josef approved the payment of
106,516 gulden, 93 kreuzer for the expenses of her visit without turning
a hair. He had heard of Sisi’s triumphs, and Baron Nopcsa, the Controller
of her Household, could only assure his Sovereign “that neither in
England nor anywhere else in the world was there a woman who could
ride like Her Majesty, and very few men besides.”
On returning to Vienna, Sisi had to get back “into harness.” Balls,
festivities and the Corpus Christi festival came along one after another,
and were duly recorded in the Countess Festetics’s diaries, together with
such little incidents as the first appearance of the Countess Paula
Széchényi (née Klinkosch) at a Court party on which Marie Festetics
commented, “Vienna is quite prepared to receive adventurers of doubtful

217
origin such as Madame Vetsera with her conduct, but turns its back on
the daughter of this great and honorable family.”
The Queen of Belgium, and the King and Queen of Greece, were
expected at the beginning of May, which Sisi found “horribly
disagreeable.” During that beautiful time of year she found “such
bothersome Court duties even more unbearable.” But the Queen of
Greece asked to see her beautiful horses and Sisi had them all led out,
deciding that the Queen was very nice and sympathetic. Her particular
delight at this time was circus horses. She took some with her to Ischl
and spent part of each day training them. She even wanted to have a little
riding school built, “tucked away in the garden, where nobody can see
it.”
This was the year in which war broke out between Serbia and Turkey
when Andrássy found out what burdens had been brought down upon
him as the Minister for Foreign Affairs; Her Majesty had lured him into
a regular witches’ cauldron. But by this time Sisi no longer exerted the
slightest political influence. Her interference was confined to such
apolitical matters as, for instance, a difference of opinion she had with
the Master of the Horse. Prince Taxis wished to put private people in
charge of horses belonging to the Emperor from the stud farm at Kladrub
and enter them for races for a while, but the Empress strongly opposed
this. After some discussion, he reported that it was absolutely necessary
in order to encourage the breeding of thoroughbreds in the country, but
Sisi retorted that the Emperor would never consent to such a proposal.
Furious that anything should be done so completely against her will,
she sat down then and there, and wrote to her husband, “If you give in to
him in this matter, I shall be seriously annoyed with you as it has never
happened to me before to be ignored in this way … I no longer interfere
in politics, but I should really like to have some voice in matters of this
kind in which the true details never reach your ears.”
Franz Josef was quite alarmed by this and gave way to her entirely,
especially as he was completely indifferent to this question of horses
while he was in the middle of all the complications of foreign politics.
He was in the process of arranging to meet the Tsar of Russia at
Reichstadt in Bohemia to discuss the issues arising from the Serbo-
Turkish War and the uprising in Bulgaria, and to define the policy of the
two Empires in regards to the Eastern Question.

218
 “I wonder whether anything sensible will come out of this visit to
Reichstadt,” was Sisi’s comment in her letter to him on July 5, 1876. “I
am afraid the great collapse that Néné always prophesied is coming to
pass … I am sending word to Andrássy that he is to persuade you to
come to Feldafing. After your great mind has been so much overtaxed in
relation to the Empire, you will certainly need to have it relaxed by the
family at Possi.”
The Emperor could not get away, however, and she had to travel to
her old home without him, accompanied by her latest pet, a fine
sheepdog called Plato, who now took Shadow’s place. A brief visit to the
King of Bavaria and she could then settle down to “family routine,” as
she called it. Everybody was in a good humor and even the Landgravine
Fürstenberg had to admit that Sisi was more charming “than she had ever
dreamed possible before.”
Early in September, the Empress made up her mind to spend another
short time in Corfu, which she had been so enchanted by fourteen years
earlier. From there she paid a flying visit to Athens, where she arrived on
the Miramar on September 9. The aged Austro-Hungarian consul was on
the quay to meet her and behaved most awkwardly, bending the knee
before the Landgravine von Fürstenberg whom he mistook for the
Empress, before finally escorting them to the capital amid a whole
chapter of accidents.
The Landgravine was amazed how Sisi endured all this tactlessness
without a word. In the Empress’s place, she said, she would long since
have lost all patience. At last, Baron Eisenstein arrived from the
Embassy and immediately everything was put to rights. A plan was
devised in an instant, and the diplomat showed them around, explaining
and arranging everything, the Empress following him with the greatest
interest. Everything modern struck her as wretched and dismal, but all
that was antique, however ruined, she took as evidence of a glorious and
long-vanished age.
On the way home from Athens, the Miramar ran into heavy weather
and everybody was seasick except the Empress, who was amused at all
the “sea-corpses” surrounding her. On the thirteenth, after yet another
short visit to Corfu, she returned to her residence at Miramar, near
Trieste, and then went straight on to Gödöllö for the hunting, carrying
away with her from Corfu an overwhelming longing for that glorious
island.

219
 There was a large party again at Gödöllö, including the Duke Ludwig
with his wife and daughter. His wife, the Baroness Wallersee, formerly
an actress called Mendel, the daughter of a Court servant, was good-
natured, modest, tactful and quiet. Everybody liked her, but the Duke did
not make her life easier with what the Countess Festetics called his
incessant “pretensions.” Sisi was fond of her brother, but she remarked to
the Countess, “It is a good thing that Henriette is his wife, as anybody
else would have left him long ago, and he is happy with her.”
She took the greatest interest in her brother’s daughter Marie who
was now eighteen years old and was known as the Freiin [Baroness] von
Wallersee because her parents’ marriage was morganatic. Sisi had
romantic views and intended to show that she wasn’t at all prejudiced
against such things. She was very nice to the little “morganatic niece,”
hoping to find a really faithful and devoted friend in her kinswoman.
Marie Wallersee was now introduced to the Imperial family, and among
others to the Crown Prince, who was now sixteen, but much older than
his age both mentally and physically.
The Countess Festetics watched the young girl with a distrustful eye.
There was something about her – she couldn’t say what – that did not
seem quite right. Here again she displayed an instinct that warned her
when something was likely to happen that would not be for the
Empress’s good.
“I find Marie Wallersee pretty,” she wrote in her diary on September
28, 1876. “I wish I liked her, and I do like her in many ways, but … but
what? There is something that pulls me up short and I can hardly trust
myself to write it down for fear of doing her an injustice. I have a feeling
– and I write this in the kindliest of ways – that she is not genuine, not
sincere, as though she is a talented actress.”
Among those invited to Gödöllö that year for the hunting was Captain
Middleton, the Empress’s guide on the English hunting field. By this
time he was as enthusiastic as everybody else about the Empress both as
a woman and a horsewoman. He was an ugly man, but cut a good figure
on horseback, thanks to his splendid “seat.” He was a nice, pleasant,
natural soldier, but very deaf. The Empress, however, who liked him
very much, said that it did not matter, as, after all, she heard what he said
and had no need to make conversation herself. Franz Josef found
Middleton very congenial too and everybody laughed at his bad German
in which he was always confusing words in the most excruciating way.

220
 Hunting and shooting occupied every day, accompanied, as usual, by
endless intrigues.
“Everybody wishes to be Master,” said Sisi, “just as in a ministry ever
body wants to be Elnök [President].”
The Empress was on horseback almost all day. She visited the stud
farms at Kisber and Kladrub, and held regular receptions in her riding
school at Gödöllö, where she went when there was no hunting, and rode
different horses for hours on end or watched the men jumping to Marie
Festetics playing the piano while they rode.
Sisi was quite sad when they had to return to Buda in January.
“It is all very well for you,” she wrote to her mother. “You can live as
you please in Munich and that is why town is not as horrible for you as it
is for me.”
In this she resembled Ludwig II of Bavaria, who wrote to her son
Rudolf that year, “I long so much to stay in some beautiful spot with
fresh, healthy air, as being shut up in town does not suit me at all.”
When, in February 1877, Sisi had to return to Vienna, where nothing
but plagues awaited her, as she said, she comforted herself with the
thought of taking lessons in haute école riding in the world-famous
Spanish Court riding school, the only one of its kind in the world, after
which, in March, there would be hunting on the Imperial estates at
Göding.
All this hunting and riding were the outward sign of that nervous
unrest that had been growing in Sisi during the last few years and was
increased by her exaggerated solicitude for little Valerie. Those around
the Empress thought her love for the child was so excessive that it made
them quite uneasy. The child had only to have a slight cough for all plans
to be cancelled in a moment.
Sisi’s relationship with Franz Josef was excellent at this time and
based on deep feeling. The Emperor’s love for his wife was touching,
and he never ceased to repeat to her, “You are the good angel of my life.”
Sisi had a thousand ways of ensuring he felt attached to her. Her oddities
were sometimes disconcerting to the Emperor, but she never bored him.
She knew how to make herself desirable without any false notes, for her
whole being was instinctual and Franz Josef was still as susceptible to
her charm as a young lover. He smilingly tolerated all her vagaries,
except when they were too extreme.

221
 For instance, when Sisi sent for a pair of Black women who were
Siamese twins, he refused to see them. Nor could he understand her
latest pet, a little Black child called “Rustimo,” presented to her by the
Khedive. Little Valerie, to whom this Black child was given as a
playmate, was scared of him and took some time to grow accustomed to
him, while the whole household was up in arms, the tutors, masters and
ladies-in-waiting refusing to ride in the same carriage with him or have
anything to do with him. The Countess Fürstenberg always wrote of him
as “that grinning little monster,” or the “black monkey,” and Marie
Festetics said he was a little better than an animal, certainly less than
human.
Sisi now interested herself in the future of Marie Wallersee. A certain
Count Georg Larisch had been attracted to the young girl, and Marie
Festetics was instructed to take her to Solza and present her to his family,
a mission that was as little to her liking as the little Baroness Wallersee
herself.
“There is something about her,” she wrote in her diary, “which I find
uncomfortable, although she is very pretty. She seems to take an interest
in everything relating to art, but I am not absolutely sure that this is not
artificial, too.”
The Crown Prince, who was now nineteen, also showed a marked
dislike for Marie Wallersee. She was betrothed to Count Larisch on
September 8, although the Countess Festetics’s impression was that she
did not care very much for her fiancé. But the Empress’s opinion was
that if the others liked the marriage, she was content with it too.
After this interlude, riding, hunting and shooting were resumed at
Gödöllö, the Crown Prince taking part in these amusements as
indefatigably as his mother. He would rise before dawn to go out after
eagles and preferred shooting to all other forms of sport.
Thanks to constant practice and the wide choice of splendid horses
available to her, Sisi had a perfect mastery of the hunting field and was
now so entirely absorbed in this sport that her one dream was to spend
another hunting season in England. Her visit was scheduled for the end
of the year, and this time the Crown Prince was to accompany her in
order to become completely polished. Having reached his majority and
having been accorded his own household, he was now free from the
supervision of the long line of tutors who had crammed him with more
knowledge than was ever good for him.

222
 One of his tutors, Baron Walterskirchen, uttered a serious warning.
“You have a splendid, joyous youth behind you, so you have no need to
drink the cup of life greedily like one who has been parched with thirst
for a long time. Enjoy the pleasures of life, but in moderation.”
But Rudolf turned a deaf ear to these well-meaning words.
Sisi did not want Rudolf to ride to hounds in England. She knew what
skills this required and dreaded an accident, as his riding was far inferior
to hers. Rudolf promised to respect his mother’s wishes, and shortly after
Christmas, the Empress traveled to London by way of Munich.
This time she had rented a very fine hunting lodge for six weeks at
Cottesbrooke, Northamptonshire, near Earl Spencer’s country house of
Althorp, and indulged her passion for riding to her heart’s content. Day
after day she hunted foxes or stags, feeling singularly at ease in her new
surroundings as the English people with whom she mixed all belonged to
the best of society. To these chivalrous men and consummate sportsmen,
with their unbounded hospitality, the Empress was simply a beautiful,
original and charming woman, a brilliant rider and a sportswoman. In
such circles she was far removed from all gossip, envy and political
spite. The only people from Austria-Hungary who were present were
personally devoted to her, especially Rudolf Liechtenstein, the
“handsome Prince” as he was called. In addition to him there were the
Kinskys, Count Franz Clam, old Count Larisch, and, of course, the
doughty Bay Middleton, as he was again assigned to guide the Empress.
In the hall of the house hung a fine picture, Gainsborough’s ‘White
Lady,’ a wonderfully noble and lovely figure that people said might
almost have been Sisi herself. The whole party was a jolly one, the
Empress was enjoying herself, everybody rode, hunted and danced, and
she received many invitations to country houses in the neighborhood.
The Empress’s sunny, lovable, simple nature triumphed everywhere and
exerted its spell, as here she was free from all fear of what her entourage
might think and everybody declared her to be “every inch an Empress.”
At nine in the morning there would be the meet, at which she enjoyed
the delightful views of rich green meadows and splendid parks in which
stood ancient, and often historic, houses with famous hunting traditions,
the members of the hunt in their pink coats, mounted on beautiful,
perfectly-groomed horses quivering with excitement at the prospect of
the chase, the slender, elegant ladies with their attractive, close-fitting
attire, and, as the center of interest, the hounds, held in check with

223
difficulty by the huntsmen while the Master, cool and composed, saw to
it that all was in order.
A splendid breakfast would be ready in the hall of the house, and
when the Empress appeared, everybody would fall silent as if spellbound
and bow before the “faerie queen.” Her host led her to the room set apart
for her, where she arranged her costume and hastily drank some
refreshments. When she came out, Bay would be waiting in readiness on
his splendid steeplechaser, Minotaur, with her manager Bayzand beside
him, and behind them her Austrian “colony.”
Assisted by Bay, the Empress would swing herself lightly into the
saddle and the hunt would move off, while Marie Festetics stood
watching the riders, thinking, ‘God grant that my beloved Empress return
home safe and sound.’
And this was no baseless fear as Sisi’s letters to the Emperor clearly
show. During the first chases in January, the most experienced riders
were thrown, one huntsman was left in a deep ditch, and Count Franz
Clam had a fall that broke his jaw and tore open his face. The brimming
ditches on the other side of difficult hedges were often littered with those
who had fallen, not that Sisi cared.
The hard-pressed fox offered them a chase for forty or fifty minutes
over the springy turf. Up and down the gently swelling hills she rode at a
fast-paced gallop and over “appetizing” hedges with no ditches. In fact,
she was in her element.
“I thought of you so much,” she wrote to Franz Josef. “If only we
could share and share alike, you one day and I the next. I am always
telling Lord Spencer how much you would enjoy it. I like him very
much. He is so nice and natural, and I think that, if ever he pays us a
visit, you will like him too.”
Bay Middleton guided her skilfully and sensibly, forcibly forbidding
her to take jumps that were too much for her. She would complain to
Franz Josef when Middleton had “a terribly prudent day,” and insisted on
dismounting and tearing his coat in an effort to break down difficult
sections of hedges by pushing through them backwards. Often, too, the
Empress’s horse was more spirited than his and out-distanced him. On
one occasion, Sisi jumped three gigantic hedges one after the other,
while Middleton went at the third so hard that he jumped into it and fell.
He was back in the saddle again in an instant, but the Empress had to
hold back and a few minutes were lost. She was always eager to get to

224
the front and follow immediately behind the hounds as the first rider to
be in at the death got the brush, and she meant to earn it honestly and not
through favoritism.
At times, when the poor hard-pressed foxes slipped from one cover to
another in the most cunning of ways, the field would split up.
“I saw no more of Kálmán Almássy for the rest of the chase,” wrote
Sisi to the Emperor on January 25, 1878. “Heini’s [Count Heinrich
Larisch’s] horse was dead beat, and Rudi Liechtenstein’s kept refusing
jumps, so they could only follow along the road when the chase was all
over. The fox was spotted several times, but finally we lost him, which
was no wonder with all those hedges and places to hide in. Besides, the
last time the fox was seen, the huntsman had not yet caught up with us
and nor did I see anything more of the whips. The Master, too, a very
disagreeable man, was more often behind me than in front of me. For the
rest, Heini tells me, some of the best riders were left behind yesterday,
tired out by the terribly heavy going, although it was almost all grass.
But thanks to your good Bravo, I never noticed it. He simply flew and
was full of fire. Colonel Middleton was simply delighted with him. If
only you had been riding him! He takes big obstacles splendidly, but he
almost came down at two little tangled hedges with ditches … If only
you were here! I say it every day I hunt, and how popular you would be
for your riding and the way you understand hunting. But it would be
dangerous as you would not allow yourself to be kept in leading-reins by
Captain Middleton, but would go dashing over everything without
waiting for him to see whether it were too deep or too broad.”
During the hunting season, the Queen of the Two Sicilies also paid a
visit to the Empress with her husband, but English society did not find
her by any means as sympathetic as her sister. She too, was undeniably
beautiful, with her dark, velvety almond eyes and equally dark lashes,
which made them almost startlingly effective, but she lacked the
Empress’s sweetness and kindliness and her radiant smile, and her
pointed nose and chin gave her a rather satyr-like expression. The
Countess Marie Festetics did not care for her much and pitied the King,
who deprived himself of everything so that his wife might spend money
hand over fist.
“Pointed nose and pointed chin,” she wrote in her diary. “There sits
the devil in between.”

225
 The Queen was annoyed with Middleton for declining to guide her on
the hunting field, so she took every opportunity to criticize him and even
hinted to the Crown Prince in London that the Englishman was in love
with the Empress. For a time the Crown Prince believed this gossip and
was positively rude to the Captain, until he understood what was
happening. The Empress’s beauty so completely turned all men’s heads
that people were only too ready to believe all stories of that sort, even
where there was not the slightest truth in it. Sisi had long ago become
used to this and no longer let it upset her as it had done once upon a time,
but this attempt to slander her to her son made her indignant, although
she never found out who was really behind it.
During Sisi’s stay at Cottesbrooke, Pope Pius IX died in Rome on
February 7, 1878. Happening not to be feeling well at the time, Sisi did
not hunt for a week and wrote to Franz Josef, “Since I am not hunting for
a few days, people will say it is on account of the Pope. So it is most
opportune.”
In the middle of February she left for home. This business with
Rudolf had upset and annoyed her, spoiling her pleasure in England and
hunting. An American dentist named Burridge, whom the Queen of the
Two Sicilies had persuaded her to employ, had played a most unpleasant
part in this gossip. Some remark made by the Crown Prince, who, being
young, had a rather loose tongue, was exaggerated and distorted in order
to sow a level of discord between mother and son. This cut Sisi to the
quick and she returned home full of bitterness.
Meanwhile, the Russo-Turkish War of 1878 had come to an end and
the victor, Russia, had only with difficulty been prevented from
occupying Constantinople. Strong differences of opinion were felt
around the Court of Vienna. The Archduke Albrecht, with his sound
political sense, was on the side of the Tsar, but again Andrássy got his
way. The Congress of Berlin deprived Russia of the fruits of victory, and
the hostility between Austria-Hungary and Russia deepened further. But
Andrássy succeeded in concealing his mistake by acquiring additional
territory, resulting in the fateful occupation of Bosnia and Herzegovina.
Nowadays Sisi refrained most determinedly from interfering in politics,
so she confined herself to a few warning words on hearing about the
occupation.
“Do not send too many Russophiles to Bosnia,” she said to Franz
Josef, “such as Croats, Bohemians, etc.”

226
 She had little confidence in the loyalty of the Slav peoples toward the
Monarchy, although her husband was inclined to want to effect a
rapprochement with them in opposition to Andrássy’s advice.
That summer, Earl and Lady Spencer were among her guests at Ischl,
after which she went on to Tegernsee, where her parents were to
celebrate their golden wedding on September 9. The celebrations were
clouded by bad news of King Ludwig’s brother who was now declared
hopelessly insane, while the King himself was growing so abnormal that
the whole country feared the same fate for him too.
On returning to Schönbrunn, Sisi devoted herself to visiting the
soldiers wounded in the Bosnian campaign. In the middle of September
she returned to Gödöllö for the shooting season and was joined by the
Crown Prince, Earl and Lady Spencer, Bay Middleton and Heinrich
Larisch. But Franz Josef could only rarely leave Vienna to join them, in
spite of her protests.
“You send everyone else away on leave,” she wrote to him, “but you
never think about yourself, and that is not wise.”
Among her beloved horses at Gödöllö was a splendid pair of grays
called “Flick” and “Flock” whom she was training herself. She would
stand in the middle of her little riding school with bread and sugar. The
horses were turned loose into it on all sides and rushed up to their
mistress, who always had something good to give them. They would stop
short in front of her, and her great amusement was to take strangers into
the riding school and see how startled they were when the horses
suddenly came rushing in.
Sisi would sometimes ask her secretary to read her the more striking
letters she received, most of which were begging letters. A certain
Ferdinand Aufrichtig, for instance, wrote and asked her to wear imitation
jewelry, as, if she made it fashionable, this would help the industry and
relieve the pockets of husbands generally. Another person, this time a
Frenchman, alleged that he had discovered a remedy for cancer and
promised to send it to her on receipt of five hundred thousand francs,
paid in advance. And she could not help laughing at a bequest from an
Italian gentleman whose will provided that, for so long as she should
live, she be sent a loaf of the famous Milanese bread known as panettone
every year.
On December 11, the Empress was seriously alarmed by an accident
to the Crown Prince, who shot himself in the left hand with a miniature

227
rifle.
“That is because he was never taught any other pastime but that
stupid shooting,” was Marie Festetic’s indignant comment. “Every
creature that breathes or has wings is in mortal danger. Such men
become possessed by a sort of lust for killing and it seems to me so
unnecessary. Even as a child – and he was a charming little fellow – he
would shoot bullfinches from his window, and the Archduchess Valerie,
who had a tender little heart, would cry bitterly.
The wound was not serious and soon healed, but by this time Sisi had
no influence whatsoever over her son. His real character was beginning
to come out: passionate, uncontrollable and utterly reckless.
The Court balls in Vienna in the winter of 1879 and “all the other
plagues one has to endure here” made her long to cross the Channel
again to do some hunting which had been such a joy for her in recent
years. But England was no longer enough for her. She had heard that the
hunting there was only a feeble copy of what went on in Ireland. There,
and there only, she heard, was the huntsman’s paradise, and those who
had not hunted foxes and stags there did not know what hunting meant.
The Empress’s headquarters were at Lord Langford’s handsome and
hospitable country house in County Meath, and her trusty companions of
previous years were again at her side.
The countryside was beautiful, with wide stretches of vivid green
grass, but the land was mostly uncultivated, quite unlike in England. The
people lived by breeding cattle, so the pastures were all surrounded by
hedges that were glorious to jump. Hunting here was far more dangerous
than in England and Marie Festetics feared for her mistress more than
ever.
“There are such high drops,” she wrote, “such deep ditches, and
doubles too, and Irish banks and walls and God knows what besides,
enough to break one’s arms, legs and neck. Nowhere have I heard so
much about broken limbs as here, and every day I see somebody carried
off the field. Bayzand had a really nasty fall, Middleton turned head over
heels, horse and all, and Lord Langford too, and so it goes on. The
Empress has splendid horses. Domino is the grandest, a magnificent
black, which bolted with its mistress on the very first day, to Lord
Langford’s horror. The field was surrounded by the most fearful
obstacles and everybody’s hair stood on end as they wondered what she
would do. But she had the presence of mind to give her horse its head,

228
and fortunately it came to a few ditches so that she soon regained control
of it and galloped calmly back again. There is only one opinion about
her, but really, my hair is always standing on end.”
There were often more than a hundred riders in the field, but not in
pink coats as in England, as it was not the custom here. The many falls
were attributed to the fact that people rode horses here that were not fully
trained, but the Empress’s mounts had been carefully chosen. Horses are
like cats, they must simply be allowed to go as they like, and Sisi was
such an accomplished rider that she saw this at once. Broad ditches full
of water were delicate morsels to her, and when she came to difficult
banks and high obstacles, she would slacken the reins and let her horse
take the jump in its own way as she had an easy, supple way of sitting
entirely independent of her hands.
Once she was riding a magnificent gray mare which was going
splendidly when she had to jump a sunk fence down in a ditch. On
another occasion there was a particularly sharp chase in which the best
riders in Ireland found it hard to keep up. But Middleton was beside
himself with pride at the end of it as no more than four or five others had
finished the chase besides him and the Empress.
Once the kill took place just beyond a high wall. The whole field
came leaping across, led by the Master and the Empress, when suddenly
they found themselves in the presence of a vast crowd of reverend
gentlemen. They had jumped into the garden of Maynooth College. The
fathers wrapped a priest’s cloak around Sisi’s fair shoulders as she was
wet through, and pressed her to enter the refectory where some fine wine
and a magnificent lunch were served. Everybody was delighted at this
unexpected distraction. Shortly afterwards, Sisi expressed her gratitude
by sending the seminary a wonderful statue of St. George.
She felt much more at ease here than in England as, in the absence of
the Queen of the Two Sicilies, there was none of the unpleasantness that
had spoiled the previous year. Besides, in this Catholic country, the
Empress was greeted not only as a horsewoman but as the first lady in a
great Catholic empire. Wherever she went, the poorest villagers put on
their best clothes and triumphal arches sprang up from the ground. There
was soon such a cult of the Empress that she had to be rather careful in
view of the antagonism between the English and the Irish, and between
Protestants and Catholics, as the jealousy of Queen Victoria and her
Court might be aroused.

229
 But Sisi was absolutely absorbed in the horses. Even the most
experienced masters of hounds, who were no flatterers, said that she was
a wonder and that they had never seen such riding. Once, after a day’s
hunting, Sisi and Rudolf Liechtenstein passed a racecourse where one of
the great steeplechases had recently taken place. They tried the obstacles,
and before the Prince could stop her, Sisi was over them all, delighted at
having taken the exact jumps that were used in these difficult races.
She took the trickiest jumps as though they were child’s play. Even
her guide, Middleton, was often thrown.
Once a fox broke cover in a park.
“I was riding Easton,” wrote the Empress to Franz Josef. “Captain
Middleton had a very awkward beast that was quite out of condition. The
pace was very brisk and the obstacles were high, so he was soon down.
He came off again for the second time at a very high, steep bank. The
horse went on jumping but was so pumped up that it came down on its
head. I had to steady Easton for a moment at the top so as not to jump
down onto it, and it performed this goat-like maneuver very cleverly.
Rudi Liechtenstein fell at the same bank and had such a frightful appetite
as a result that we laughed at him all evening. Captain Middleton said he
could not guide me any longer as his horse was done for, so we rode
slowly to the spot where our carriages were waiting.”
The next day there was another mishap.
“We came to a bank with a ditch,” wrote Sisi, “and Captain
Middleton fell into it. While standing on his head, he called out, ‘All
right’ quite cheerfully and I got across perfectly easily. The ditch was
heavily overgrown, so his horse had made a mistake and jumped into the
middle of it instead of over it, but mine could see the ditch through the
hole which he had made.”
Everybody came down one after another and at last it was Sisi’s turn.
This was quite late in March, during one of the last hunts of the season,
and the Empress was riding her gallant gray mare that had so often
carried her over the worst obstacles. But now she came to an
insignificant, but very overgrown, little ditch, and the unsuspecting mare
took off too late and fell on the opposite side of the ditch. As quick as
lightning Sisi jumped to the ground, the mare struggled to its feet
without anybody’s help, and Sisi was up again and had rushed on to join
the rest of the field.

230
 In the middle of all this fun, the Empress received the disastrous news
from home that the town of Szegedin had been half destroyed by floods.
She was deeply shocked and wanted to start out for home at once.
“Owing to the sad news from Szegedin,” she at once wrote to Franz
Josef, “I have decided to leave here … It was not until we saw the latest
telegrams and details in the papers that we realized the full extent of the
catastrophe. So I feel that it would be better for me to leave now, and you
will be better pleased too. It is the greatest sacrifice I can make, but
under such conditions it is necessary.”
She accordingly prepared to start out for home, hoping that Franz
Josef would not expect her to make any visits in London, which she
always found so boring. As a rule she had little thought for what her
expensive tastes cost – her trip to Ireland, for instance, had cost no less
than 158,337 gulden, 48 kreuzer – but now she suddenly turned cost-
conscious.
“The Queen will not be back from Italy when I leave. The Prince of
Wales has sent a message suggesting that we might meet somewhere on
my way. Do you really want me to stop in London? I would gladly avoid
it to save hotel bills. Then I should have made the whole journey here
and back without going to a hotel.”
Franz Josef did not want her to pay any visits. He was only glad that
she had realized the necessity for coming home without his having had to
give her a hint.

Both the Emperor and the Empress still looked so young and healthy that
it was hard to believe that they had been married twenty-five years. But
now Vienna prepared to celebrate their silver wedding. Sisi’s dislike of
the restraints of Court life made her imagine that she was unpopular. She
did not realize that outside her own circle there were millions of
excellent people from all walks of life who were far more loyal to their
Sovereigns than most of those who basked daily in their grace and favor,
and these days of rejoicing offered an opportunity for everyone to
display their affection.
Unfortunately, it rained on the anniversary of their wedding day and
the procession had to be postponed. But this did not dampen the
enthusiasm of the hundreds of thousands of people who crowded to
Vienna from every corner of the Empire. It merely meant that the
gorgeous pageant designed by Makart took place a little later. This

231
incomparable tribute offered by the capital developed into an
overwhelming expression of the heart-felt affection felt by the people of
the Empire for their Sovereigns, and the few critics who could not refrain
from trying to deprecate the Empress passed almost unnoticed. In other
places, said a malicious wit, it was customary to celebrate a silver
wedding after twenty-five years of ménage [being a household], but this
was twenty-five years of manège [riding school]. The jest was repeated
to Sisi but she only laughed.
After the celebrations in Vienna, the Emperor and Empress went on
to Hungary, where they were received with such raucous cheering that
the skeptical Landgravine Fürstenberg was quite touched by such
tumultuous and “almost savage” enthusiasm.
The Jubilee festivities having come to an end, life resumed its
customary routine. The Empress was on horseback from early morning
until late in the evening, and when she was not riding, she was concerned
about the people surrounding her. The Countess Marie Festetics, whose
understanding of a person’s character amounted to almost genius,
observed with anxiety that Sisi was incapable of moderation, not only in
things into which she flung herself with whole-hearted enthusiasm, but
also in her sympathies and antipathies, the trust and confidence, or
mistrust and reserve, that she showed toward those around her.
The Countess never tired of trying to understand her mistress.
“To me,” she wrote in her diary, “the Empress is like a book that one
never tires of reading. The more one absorbs oneself in it, the more it
fascinates one.”
In spite of all her love, admiration and enthusiasm for Sisi’s beauty,
Marie Festetics’s worldly wisdom and penetrating intelligence were
almost prophetic. There could be no more acute analysis of the
Empress’s character than that which she wrote on September 14, 1878,
when the future was inevitably entirely hidden from her.
“The Empress is sweet and good, but she continuously torments
herself, and what to others is a pure joy becomes a source of discontent
to her. She seems like a child in a fairytale. The good fairies came and
each of them laid a splendid gift in her cradle – beauty, sweetness, grace,
dignity, simplicity, kindness, nobility, intelligence, wit, archness,
penetration and shrewdness. But then came the bad fairy and said, ‘I see
that everything has been given to you – everything. But I will turn these
qualities against you and they shall bring you no happiness. I give you

232
nothing, but I deprive you of one supreme good that is too little valued,
but is very necessary to preserve the balance of the soul if one is to enjoy
happiness through inward harmony and one's spirit is to know peace. I
deprive you of something that a man bears within him unconsciously:
moderation in your actions, occupations, thoughts and sensibilities.
Nothing shall bring you happiness, everything shall turn against you,
even your beauty shall bring you nothing but sorrow. Your noble
intelligence shall delve so deeply into things that it will lead you astray
and you will despise humanity. And thus you shall lose your faith in
goodness and love, and your trust in those who are best, and give it in
those very quarters where it will be abused. And so your soul shall be
filled with disgust and bitterness until you never find peace.’ I often hear
what is said and see that she is suffering. I am afraid I shall always prove
to have been right, and yet I would give my life for her happiness.”
That autumn saw the resignation of Count Andrássy from the
Ministry for Foreign Affairs. Much has been written on the subject, yet
the real cause of his resignation remains a mystery. His own explanation
was that he did not want to be either one of those ministers who cling to
their post at all costs, or one of those who are driven out because people
are tired of them, but one of those who retire of their own free will when
they have achieved their purpose.
It might have been supposed that Sisi would be greatly affected by the
fall of the minister whose appointment she had encouraged so strongly,
but she accepted it with equanimity, “as,” she said, “in doing so, he
remains with us all the same,” thus drawing a distinction between his
sympathetic personality and his politics.
The Crown Prince did not like his mother’s attitude. In his eyes, his
father was too conservative.
“There was a time,” he said later in the year, “when the Empress
often concerned herself with politics – whether with happy results or not
I refrain from deciding – and discussed serious subjects with the
Emperor from a point of view diametrically opposed to his own. But
these times are past. The august lady now cares for nothing but sport, so
that even this channel, through which outside opinions of a fairly liberal
complexion had access to him previously, is closed.”
Sisi’s visit to Gödällö that autumn was again devoted entirely to
riding. In the morning she hunted, and in the afternoon went to her little
riding school adjoining the palace where there was music and her guests

233
were entertained to tea while she rode one highly-trained horse after
another, studied her faults and tried to perfect her technique. She had a
little red note book in which she made daily notes on every horse and
entered such rules of riding as, “Throw your body forward at the
takeoff,” or “A firm seat, steady hands, and turn your toes in.” She wrote
down instructions for the pirouette or the volte, or noted that she had not
succeeded in “changing legs while threading my way in and out of the
benches at a gallop.” She performed lançades and ruades on the splendid
horse Majestoso from the Imperial stud at Lippiza, and practiced all the
subtleties of the haute école.
She also studied the subject in theory as well as in practice. Countless
books on horses and riding were added to her library at this time, with
racing calendars and other books of that sort besides books on
gymnastics and the art of training the body both for sport and for general
health, very much according to the current fashion.
The Crown Prince was full of joie de vivre.
“If only I could,” he said to Valerie. “It is terrible to think that one has
got to die in the end!”
But he enjoyed life too much to cherish such thoughts for long. He
was a universal favorite – “too nice for words,” as Marie Festetics noted
– but he, too, knew no moderation.
He often confided in the Countess and these little confidences
brought to her attention many things that worried her.
“What temptations lie in wait for such a young man!” wrote the
Countess. “Among others, I find, is Madame Vetsera … who ought not
to be so very dangerous, as, Heaven knows, she is not good looking, but
she is so sly and so glad to make use of everybody. She means to get to
Court and advance herself and her family. Her daughters are growing up
– very slowly, it is true – but she is beginning to train them in good
time.”
The Baroness Vetsera also made approaches to the Empress’s ladies,
to the unsuspecting Ida Ferenczy as well as to the highly skeptical
Countess Festetics. And when the Countess avoided her, she tried to
bring the Crown Prince’s influence to bear on her.
Once, Rudolf said to the Countess Festetics suddenly, “The Baroness
Vetsera will come to call on you tomorrow evening if you will permit her
to,” to which the Countess replied with a laugh, “Oh, no, Your Imperial
Highness, I cannot permit it. She may make assignations with your

234
Imperial Highness elsewhere, but not in my sitting room. I have no
desire to spend time with her. I have kept her at arm’s length until now
and shall continue to do so.” He laughed and accepted her decision, but
the Baroness did not give up.
The Empress watched the whole thing with great annoyance and even
the Emperor remarked at dinner, on December 3, 1879, “The way that
woman behaves with Rudolf is unbelievable. She is always pursuing
him. Today she has actually sent him a present.” And turning to the
Countess Festetics, he added, “It seems to me that you rather dislike her,
do you not, Countess?”
“Yes, Your Majesty, I do,” was the reply.

In February 1880, the Empress was again overcome with longing for the
Emerald Isle and the splendid hunting that had given her such pleasure
the previous year. Leaving a hard winter behind her in Bavaria, where
she broke her journey, she arrived in Ireland at Summerhill House
[owned by Lord Langford] on a warm spring day.
On the day after her arrival, there was a hard day’s stag-hunting.
“I rode Domino,” she wrote to the Emperor. "Owing to the pouring
rain of the night before, the going was very heavy. We found [a stag] at
once and were off at a rapid pace over obstacles of all sorts. Middleton
and I kept up for an hour and twenty minutes. Although Bayzand was
riding a good horse, which he praises to the skies, he pitched over a bank
into the field beyond and hurt his foot … He is now in bed with a bag of
ice on his ankle, simply beside himself at being prevented from riding.
Rudi Liechtenstein came down too, but did not hurt himself, and our
host, Lord Langford, fell on his face and has not been able to swallow
very well since.”
Lord Langford fell once at a ditch full of water and after that at an
insignificant little ditch, where his horse broke its back, so Franz Josef
had every reason to be anxious about the Empress.
On the seventeenth, she wrote again, “Stag-hunting at some distance
from here, near Dublin, so there was an enormous field. Thanks to a few
big jumps right at the beginning, we got away from the crowd at once
and had such a wonderful start. Then came a ditch for which one had to
take off from the road. It was not so very wide but the takeoff needed a
horse better accustomed to this sort of thing, and Middleton’s has hunted
more in England than here, so it jumped too soon and fell in. He was

235
soon out again himself, although somewhat out of breath – or, as they
say here, ‘with the wind knocked out of him’ – and by the time he had
pulled his horse out again, of course the hounds were far away.”
The same thing happened on the tenth.
“The pace was very rapid from the start. There were a number jumps,
and big ones too, but the ditches were not overgrown. We came to only
one double, a bank broken by a ditch in the middle and, on the far side of
it, a boggy ditch, quite green, over which both Middleton and I fell, but
well clear of it, on the side of the bog, so that we did not get wet, and the
ground was quite soft. Several people must have fallen in, so Tom told
me later, but I did not see them because, of course, I rode on at once. I
saw Lord Langford standing by another ditch fishing for his horse.”
Middleton’s brown horse, which had never hunted in Ireland before,
refused so often that he was sometimes left far behind and the Empress
had to follow the lead of Tom Healy who had taken the place of her
manager Bayzand who was injured. Sisi’s horse performed splendidly
and made no mistakes, so that even Tom Healy had difficulty in keeping
up with her. When even he fell for the second time, the Empress gave up
hunting for the rest of the day as, by that time, the horses were dead beat.
Everybody was nervous for her. Although she had the best horses,
and rode none in which she did not have absolute confidence, she was far
too daring. Liechtenstein saw her take a ditch that he considered to be the
biggest jump he had ever seen in Ireland. The horse pulled so badly that
Sisi rode without gloves and the reins chafed her hands until they were
sore.
Minor accidents were constantly happening in the field all around her.
“Within a few minutes,” she wrote to the Emperor on the nineteenth,
“we were over some water and then came a bank, behind which was a
full ditch. It was not a very nice jump, so I waited to see how Middleton
would take it. But instead of jumping straight, his mare pitched head
over heels to the left into the water, where the ditch, with a lot of tangled
bushes, formed the corner of the road. Since the way was free in front of
me, I got over safely, and so did Tom who jumped at the same moment,
and hurried to help Middleton who was hanging head down with his foot
so caught in the stirrup that he could not have got up again by himself.”
Two days later, Sisi’s guide was again unlucky.
“Although we were really invited to hunt the fox with the Kildare, the
gentlemen decided yesterday evening that we must go stag-hunting

236
instead, if only to give the slip to all the inquisitive people who come out
in crowds in special trains when I am expected anywhere at a meet. All
the evening and early this morning, Middleton and Lord Langford were
laughing at the thought of taking them in like this. A lady named Miss
Hussey fell in front of me, and she and her gray simply rolled over and
over. Later on she fell into the water too, but for all that she was in at the
death. Middleton had another fall … and remained with his foot caught
in the stirrup again in a way that was almost more alarming than the
other day, as his horse wanted to go on. But my Tom saved him again.”
When Middleton appeared at supper that night at Summerhill, a great
cheer went up, and somebody improvised a poem in honor of Sisi.

The Queen of the Chase!

The Queen! Yes, the Empress!
Look, look, how she flies,
With a hand that never fails
And a pluck that never dies.
The best man in England can’t lead her – he’s down!
“Bay” Middleton’s back is done beautifully brown.

Hark horn and hark halloa!

Come on for a place!
He must ride who would follow
The Queen of the Chase!

Middleton could take this ribbing in good part as he had proven his
skill by winning countless steeplechases, and would continue to do so.
He won no less than twenty-nine races, eleven in succession, on his mare
Lady of the Harem. If such a man as he came down so often, it can be
imagined what the country was like. But the keener the sport, the more
Sisi delighted in it. Here she was on vacation, enjoying perfect liberty,
peace and independence; but here, too, she showed her lack of
moderation. For the moment her passion for hunting was uppermost, but
suddenly there might be a change of mind and something else would take
its place only to be equally overdone.
“The great advantage of Ireland,” Sisi ruminated, “is that it has no
Royal Highnesses.” It bored her terribly, she wrote to her mother, when
she had to go and see the Queen at Windsor again on her way home. But

237
on this occasion it was all the more necessary because people in England
were critical of the Empress’s second visit to Ireland. Throughout large
parts of Ireland discontent with English rule prevailed and there was
distress on account of the bad harvest. Tenants were not paying their
landlords and there was talk of Home Rule. Although nothing of the sort
was evident around Summerhill, the western part of the island was
seething with unrest. At such a time, the Empress’s travels in search of
pleasure were somewhat untimely, so she started out for home sooner
than usual, leaving Lord Langford’s fine, hospitable house on March 7 in
glorious weather.

On March 10, while she was still in London, Sisi was brought a
telegram, on the opening of which she turned deathly pale.
The Countess Festetics nervously inquired what the matter was.
“The Crown Prince is betrothed to Princess Stéphanie,” was the reply.
“Thank God,” said the lady-in-waiting, “that it is not news of some
disaster.”
But the Empress answered agitatedly, “Heaven ensure that it isn’t
one.”
Her impression was that the whole thing had been unnecessarily
rushed, as the Crown Prince was only twenty-two and his future wife
only fifteen.
When she had lunch at Windsor, the stateliness of everything seemed
quite wonderful to her, but the stout little Queen felt quite embarrassed
standing next to the tall, slender Empress. Lord Beaconsfield [the British
Prime Minister, Benjamin Disraeli] was also presented to her. She
thought him terribly ugly, but interesting and entertaining.
On her way home, the Empress had to stop over in Brussels to make
the acquaintance of her son’s fiancée, but as was her custom, she had
asked that there be no reception. She and her party traveled by night and
were to reach Brussels punctually at eight o’clock in the morning.
Everybody on the train was asleep, when all of a sudden the thunder
of cannons, followed by the National Anthem, was heard through the
pitch blackness. The whole party jumped out of their beds. No servants
were ready and there were no lights. Everybody imagined that they had
arrived in Brussels.
“What on earth is happening?” they asked. “Her Imperial Majesty is
still in bed.”

238
 They all hurriedly put on clothes as best they could. Nopcsa rushed
out of his sleeping compartment in full dress and a silk hat, and hastily
dressed lady’s maids rushed to and fro.
At last the incident was explained. They had arrived in Tournai, on
the Belgian frontier, at four o’clock in the morning, and this graceful
welcome was intended for the fiancé’s mother. They all returned to bed
again until eight o’clock, when a similar din was heard, but this time it
was really Brussels.
The Crown Prince was on the platform with his future bride and all
the Royal Family. Sisi appeared, looking exquisitely lovely in a dark
blue costume trimmed with sable, and the Crown Prince, who was really
moved, kissed his mother’s neck. Next came his fiancée, young, fresh,
and immature, and not very well dressed, a mere child with a child's
complexion. Everybody admired the Empress, but there was nothing that
appealed to her about this visit. She returned home in a rather serious
mood and remarked to Franz Josef, “I hope it will turn out well!”
But he calmed her fears, saying, “You always worry over things far
too much."
Rudolf soon became aware of her feelings and confided to Count
Latour that she was less nice to him now. He did not hesitate to be quite
outspoken in his criticisms of his parents and remarked to Latour on one
occasion that his mother was “an idle but thoroughly clever woman.”
Once more there was public rejoicing in Vienna, in which Sisi
enjoyed most a tournament arranged by the nobility with costumes etc. in
the style of the Emperor Maximilian. She continued on to Buda with a
sigh of relief, but here another ordeal awaited her when, for the first time
in her life, she took the chair at a meeting of the Red Cross Society, of
which she was patroness.
On such occasions she always had to struggle against her inveterate
shyness, the extent of which was only to be guessed at by her intimates,
and she particularly disliked appearing in public when she felt that it was
in order to squeeze contributions out of her. Such occasions made no
appeal to her vanity, which was of quite a different order. She enjoyed
being beautiful and did all she could to keep her body slender, healthy
and in shape, but being stared at caused her positively physical pain. She
accepted her beauty quite naturally, but she would have liked to have
been able to enjoy this heaven-sent gift without paying the price for it in
other ways.

239
 During her visit to Bavaria that summer she called upon Ludwig II at
Schloss Berg on the Starnbergersee, and finding him not at home, left a
spray of jasmine for him as a visiting card. King Ludwig was enchanted
by this attention and wrote her such a rapturous letter that she sent him a
whole wreath of the same flowers with a photograph of little Valerie. The
child was not particularly pretty at this time but had an unusually
affectionate, warm-hearted and thoughtful nature, although she suffered
severely from the family affliction of excessive shyness or “Genation”
[from the French word gêne – annoyance, disturbance], as she had
already begun to call it in 1877 when she started her diary at the age of
nine.
Valerie found it hard to reconcile herself to her brother’s betrothal.
“Nazi, that boy!” she wrote in red ink – Nazi being the nickname she
had invented for him – “Nazi, who only a few years ago used to lunch
off the bullfinches that he had shot himself. Nazi, who used to tease me
so … betrothed!”
Valerie's shyness prevented her from showing much affection to those
around her, and this explains why the Empress’s “one and only” little girl
was often misjudged in early childhood. Sisi was the only person who
knew her daughter as she really was, and she was only happy when with
her or on horseback, but at other times she felt a strange unrest and had
frequent fits of low spirits.
On All Souls’ Day, she said to Marie Festetics, “It is often so sad here
on earth, and hard though it is to pass from life to death, I am sure that
nobody would choose to come back, even if he could.”
But such moods are difficult to reconcile with the outward life. At the
parties given for the child, her parents joined in the children’s games as if
they were children themselves, and on such occasions their family life
was both happy and delightful. But on leaving this atmosphere, Sisi was
once more tormented by her distrust of humanity. She did not make fun
of people or tell unkind tales about them, but if she felt people to be ill-
disposed toward her, she was far too quick to treat them with coldness,
and even contempt, despite the fact that there may only have been a
misunderstanding. She also showed slight symptoms of that persecution
complex from which so many people suffer, and then she would seek
refuge with her adored Valerie.
Her affection for her child brought out all that was deepest in her
nature, but even her love was full of exaggeration and consequently

240
lacking in harmony. Her beauty and sweetness surrounded her, as it were,
with an aureole. Whether she sat on the throne at the Emperor’s side or
bent the knee before the altar; whether she wore a Court train or walked
around the garden in a short skirt; whether she was playing or drinking
her milk, she remained a true Empress, and that, as the Countess
Festetics remarked, not by reason of artificial etiquette and formality of
bearing, but through that grace with which God had endowed her.
The Crown Prince’s wedding now began to be discussed at Court, but
his fiancée was still such an immature child that, although the Belgian
Royal Family wished to proceed with the marriage without delay, the
date that had been fixed had to be postponed.
In the fall, Lord Langford was the guest of the Emperor and Empress
at Gödöllö, and he now persuaded Sisi to cross the Channel again the
following year. She would have preferred to go to Ireland, but it was put
to her that this was not advisable on political grounds. Another visit from
a Catholic might be interpreted by Catholic Ireland as encouraging the
Home Rule movement and as a demonstration against the British
Government. So this time she decided to go to England again, to Lord
Combermere’s house in Cheshire.

A thick fog was lying over the country when she arrived on February 15,
1881. She at once went to the stables to visit the horses which she had
left there during the winter. She was quite homesick for Ireland, but she
was more likely to get home again safe and sound from a place where the
country was not so rough. Middleton had been very ill during the winter,
but was now well again and staying at Lord Combermere’s. The house
had originally been an old abbey, built in the year 1132 and altered for
William of Orange in 1682, the room in which he had slept being painted
orange in his honor. This room was allotted to Marie Festetics. Even the
furniture was orange and the bed in which the Prince of Orange had slept
was hung with curtains of the same color. The bed was so high that, to
Sisi’s great amusement, the Countess had to climb on a chair and jump
up, risking her neck. She felt as if she were living in an orange rind
turned inside out.
Combermere Abbey was surrounded by splendid woods of oaks and
lime trees. The master of a neighboring pack with which the Empress
hunted was Lord Stafford, and the field was much larger than in Ireland,
as many as a hundred-and-fifty people turning out. But Sisi found the

241
jumps somewhat inconsequential, although neither Rudolf Liechtenstein
nor Middleton considered them quite so harmless, and even with such a
big field, barely twenty were in at the death. One Master of the Hounds
was Sir Watkin Williams Wynn of Wynnstay, 6th Baronet – “Sir Whyn,”
as she called him, although he was otherwise nicknamed “the Prince in
Wales” as he was descended from the Princes of North Wales – had two
dear little girls who were eight and fourteen years old, and it amused Sisi
to see how they were allowed to join in the hunt. When the Countess
Festetics asked in alarm, “But who looks after the children?” the Master
replied quite calmly, “Oh, everybody does.”
The Empress would often ride three horses in the course of the day,
and would not get home until half-past five in the afternoon, in addition
to which she did not neglect her usual gymnastics morning and evening.
She was excessively slender and ate too little, and all this had a bad
effect on her nerves. Although she tired herself out, or perhaps because
of this, she often had little refreshing sleep. But she delighted in the
glorious countryside with its beautiful deep clear lake, rich velvety
lawns, and meadows of cedars and cypresses, cork oaks and conifers.
The English gentry vied with one another in their hospitality, but she no
longer found as much pleasure in riding as in previous years and became
more and more difficult to please in the matter of her horses.
Her fondness for hunting was severely criticized by many people. A
certain Herr Friedrich of Rotterdam, for instance, wrote her an ironic
letter asking her to advance him the cost of one day's hunting in England
to enable him to carry on his business. A malicious article in a Socialist
newspaper gave great offence to the Controller of her Household, but
Sisi had long since grown accustomed to such attacks.
“The only thing that surprises me now,” she wrote to Frau von
Ferenczy from Combermere Abbey, “is when anyone says or writes
anything nice about me.”

And then there came the news of the horrible murder of the Tsar
Alexander II in St. Petersburg. Sisi was terribly shocked and remarked to
the Countess Festetics, who had once been proposed to by Prince
Dolgoruky, “Isn’t it better to be with me in Combermere than in that
terrible country?”
Her departure had been fixed for March 28 and she had to keep all
manner of engagements in a hurry at the last moment, including the

242
famous Grand National horse race, a visit to the Duke of Westminster,
and another to the Queen in Windsor. Then she went on to Paris, where
her sisters – the Queen of the Two Sicilies, the Countess of Trani and
Duchess of Alençon – were staying. The President of the French
Republic, Jules Grévy, called on her at her hotel and made an odd
impression upon her with his self-conscious behavior. Among other
things, he congratulated her upon her son’s approaching marriage,
adding clumsily, “When one sees you, Madame, one might almost think
you would be the bride yourself.”
Hearing this, her ladies had the greatest difficulty suppressing their
smiles, but Sisi blushed to the roots of her hair and looked at him in such
astonishment that he was quite embarrassed, and fearing the Empress
might dismiss him, jumped up in a hurry and left.
While she was in Paris, the Empress received a telegram fixing the
date of Rudolf’s wedding for May 10. The Court of Vienna was feeling
rather uncomfortable at all the delays and postponements, but Sisi had
insisted most strenuously that it must not take place while the bride was
still an immature child. However, now it was decided that it would be
celebrated immediately with all the traditional splendor. For the Empress
this meant, in a sense, bidding farewell to her son, because when he had
a wife, he would no longer be so close to her. All she hoped was that it
would make him quieter and more settled.
“He is clever,” wrote Marie Festetics in her diary on June 19, 1881,
“but after all, he is still young and has had no guidance. But what will
happen now? I feel a little anxious.”
The Crown Prince was still very mercurial and his mind roiled with
extremely liberal opinions. He was rather contemptuous of mankind, as
he saw how everybody deferred to him and all the women made
advances toward him, from the Princess to the chamber maid. He was
highly talented with a remarkable intelligence, but he lacked moderation.
Sisi was unaware of this as she did not see how Rudolf behaved when
he was with other people. In fact, the Emperor and Empress knew little
about his real life at all as he was not in the habit of confiding in
anybody.

In July, while the Empress was staying with her family at Garatshausen,
the King of Bavaria sent her an enormous and magnificent bouquet, and

243
asked when he might call upon her. But he added that it must be in the
evening and nobody else must see him.
When little Valerie heard that he did not want to be seen, she made up
her mind to find out what he was like. She watched his arrival from her
hiding place, but was quite shocked to see how stout he was and what a
fuss he made. Sisi wanted him to get to know Valerie, so she hurriedly
sent the child to fetch some jasmine, which was her own favorite flower
and the King’s too. Valerie offered him the flowers and he had to accept
them with what grace he could muster, but he thanked her hurriedly and
indistinctly, and it was hard to say whether he or Valerie was the shyer or
more embarrassed of the two. One thing is certain: everybody was glad
when the King had left.
The rest of the summer was spent in the usual way, in riding and
country house parties. In September, Sisi was pleased to hear that Franz
Josef proposed to build a house in the Tiergarten [deer-park] at Lainz, in
which they could spend their old age. In the middle of September, the
Court moved to Gödöllö for the shooting season. Duke Ludwig was there
again with the Baroness Wallersee, and Sisi remarked to the Countess
Festetics, “I cannot treat her with enough appreciation as I am so grateful
to her. I am fond of my strange brother, but even I cannot get on with
him for a single day – and with a nature like his, who could? Nobody!
Yet she makes him happy. It does not matter to me who she is, she suits
him, so I am not in the least uncomfortable around the ‘citizen’s daughter
of Augsburg,' but value her for her husband’s sake.”
The Empress was also very fond of her brother’s daughter. Marie
Larisch, but the Countess Festctics could not swallow her now any more
than she could before.
Occasionally outsiders would find their way into the Empress’s
world. For instance, on one occasion some gentlemen sent an English
manufacturer to her to show her some new invention.
“Can you ride?” she asked him and the manufacturer answered rather
hesitatingly that he could.
He had to borrow a riding outfit in a hurry and follow the Empress,
showing her his goods as he rode. For forty minutes Sisi kept him
galloping hard through the forest of Haraszti, and we may well wonder
whether she took in much of what he had to say.
The Englishman dismounted, bathed in perspiration, and said, “Those
were the fastest forty minutes I have ever experienced,” and Sisi

244
triumphantly repeated this remark to the Emperor.
But her visit to Hungary was prematurely broken off. On October 11,
Andrássy’s successor, Baron Haymerle, suddenly died of a heart attack,
and on October 27, Sisi went to see his unfortunate widow who tottered
toward her looking the very picture of woe. And when Sisi held out her
hand for her to kiss, she collapsed at her feet in a dead faint. Sisi helped
her to her feet and almost carried her up the steps to her apartment. Tears
streamed down her cheeks and nobody who saw the expression of tender
pity on her lovely face ever forgot it.
She left the house in a state of great agitation.
“It is terrible,” she said, “to think that this poor woman, who adored
her husband, should have said goodbye to him quite casually and
unsuspectingly, only to come home a few hours later and find him dead.
Her hasty farewell was to be forever.”
Those who had once seen the Empress in such circumstances as these
were less critical of her quirks which were beginning to be the talk of the
whole Empire. She was too much given to hiding her face behind her fan
when she appeared in public and this offended people. Somebody wrote
an article entitled “The Strange Lady,” omitting, however, to mention her
visits to the cholera hospitals, and it is significant that a comic paper
called the Kikeriki was the only one to give such people a well-deserved
snub by publishing some verses under the same title, the gist of which
was as follows.

This woman is strange, who, fearless of danger and

moved only by love of humanity, bears consolation to the
house of tragedy. Who, regardless of her beauty, goes
and talks to smallpox patients, hurries with tears in her
eyes to the sick man’s death bed and stays there by the
side of those whom all others have abandoned. You
patronesses, only see how humane a woman can be, not
only while listening to Strauss’s music, but also in the
hospital, drying people's tears where death in all its
forms threatens. Learn this noble humanity from our
Empress.

At the end of October, King Humbert of Italy arrived with Queen

Margherita on a visit. Sisi found the Queen pleasant and sympathetic,

245
and liked her, although she was not exactly good-looking. The Italian
visitors were enchanted with the Empress’s beauty and this mutual
sympathy alleviated the burden of the exhausting days during which fête
followed fête, tea-parties, concerts and theater, until Sisi’s nerves were
worn out changing her dress five times a day. She was glad when she
returned to Gödöllö, which Franz Josef, too, had come to like more and
more.

On December 8, the Emperor was already at supper when an urgent

telegram was handed to him. He read it hurriedly and then let it drop
from his hand.
“The Ring Theater is on fire,” he said hoarsely. "Taaffe telegraphs
that the audience is safe. Who knows whether it is true?”
He rose from the table at once and rushed to Sisi who did not dine
with him as her evening meal consisted of nothing but a glass of milk.
They soon heard that Taaffe’s hasty telegram was inaccurate as the most
appalling catastrophe had occurred. Hundreds of people had tried to fight
their way out through the doors, which only opened inwards and the
pressure of the crowd had made it impossible to open them, with the
result that the whole audience was crushed or burned to death. Franz
Josef and Sisi were terribly upset, all hunting was stopped, and they did
all they could to relieve those who had lost relatives. Among the victims
was a son of the Baroness Vetsera.
Sisi only felt really happy in a limited circle. A Court ball was a
misery to her but the children’s dances given for her daughter Valerie
were a delight. On one occasion, seventeen little girls belonging to the
most elevated families had been invited. The Emperor danced with them
enthusiastically and Sisi presided over the occasion most graciously.
She enjoyed it all enormously, especially the delicious naïveté of the
youngest child who attended, "Do" Hohenlohe. The party had begun at
four, and by nine o’clock the little girl was sitting in a chair, very tired
and sleepy, when Sisi went up to her and asked her gently, “Do, would
like something to eat?”
It had been insistently impressed upon the child that she must behave
beautifully, so she looked up at the Empress and replied, in accordance
with the strictest rules of etiquette, “I thank Your Majesty a thousand
times, no.”

246
 The Empress offered her ices, jam, tea, lemonade, cake, but still the
little girl declined in the politest of fashions.
At last the Empress said kindly, “Tell me, Do, is there anything you
would like?” whereupon the child suddenly lost patience and answered
crossly, “I should like to be left in peace and go to bed,” to which the
Empress answered laughingly, “You are a clever little person. That is
often what I should like,” and Do was allowed to go home.

In the year 1882, carnival was not yet over when the Empress left to visit
England, which had now become an annual event. Ireland was to be
avoided for the same reason as before and she again stayed with Lord
Combermere at the Abbey.
This time, Middleton did not guide the Empress as he was engaged to
be married, and it was on the eve of his wedding. His positions as pilot
and of being in charge of the Empress’s horses were taken up by Captain
Rivers-Bulkeley. Rudolf Liechtenstein was there, too. Both the hunting
and the weather were excellent, yet after the first few days in the field
Sisi was very tired. Her former high spirits had abandoned her. Her
moodiness and a thousand minor issues that she raised betrayed that she
found hunting an effort and no longer enjoyed it as much as she had done
before. The month had hardly ended, therefore, before she left for home.
She lunched with the Queen at Windsor again and went on to her
three sisters in Paris. Eager to enjoy all she could, she wandered about on
foot from early in the morning until late in the evening when her ladies
could walk no more. Horrified rumors reached Vienna that the Empress
had ridden in an omnibus.
"If only she would!” was the Countess Festetics’s comment. “But we
always have to walk!”
During her short visit to Paris, the Duke of Aumale arranged a
splendid stag hunt at his Château de Chantilly, at which ancient costumes
were worn. The Duke, as Master of the Hounds, came out to meet her at
the entrance to the château, followed by the whole hunt, including all the
royal princes. Once more the horns sounded the old traditional hunting
calls, and after a long gallop, the trophy was presented ceremoniously to
Sisi.
Yet the whole thing seemed to her like a theatrical performance, a
copy of something past and gone. It seemed almost symbolic as the
Empress’s hunting fever had now cooled too and her joy in wild gallops

247
had passed away. They were a thing that had been but would never be
again.
Never again would Sisi ride in England.

248
Chapter 11

Long Walks and Dangerous Expeditions (1882-1886)

The Emperor met Sisi at the station in Vienna. As always on these

occasions, his eyes were shining and his joy was deep and genuine. But
the happy reunion was almost immediately interrupted by a visit from
the Russian Grand Duchess Vladimir who was on her way to Italy.
She had terrible things to tell them about St. Petersburg where the
anarchists were terrorizing everybody since the murder of the Tsar, and
nobody belonging to the Imperial family or holding high office was safe.
Every time she spoke of St. Petersburg, tears came into her eyes.
“I cannot get well there,” she said. “The anxiety about my family is
killing me. Whenever my husband goes out, I am forced to wonder
whether he will return to me alive.”
Since leaving England, the Empress had ridden less, even at home.
But she now began to take tremendous walks at the pace of a lightning
march, racing along for four hours. The only one of her ladies who could
keep up with her was the Countess Festetics or occasionally the
Landgravine Fürstenberg.
“I was walked quite off my feet,” wrote the Countess Marie Festetics
in her diary after one such walk, although she tried not to show it. It
could hardly be called walking, she added, but was more like running
without a single pause, which made the task of attending the Empress no
easy one.
During April, there was shooting again at Göding, after which, on
April 19, 1882, the Empress appeared at the spring review of the troops
on the Schmelz, looking magnificent on her finest horse, Nihilist, a rare
honor that roused both officers and men to enthusiasm.
On her return home it had to be broken to her that the famous circus-
rider Emilie Loisset, a brilliant horsewoman and excellent woman to
whom she had taken a great fancy, had been killed in the circus when her
horse fell under her. Marie Festetics purposely gave the Empress a
detailed account of the accident in the hope of inducing her to be more
careful too. But the warning was no longer needed as Sisi now rode far
more prudently, as well as less often. She had decided to satisfy her
craving for physical exercise in other ways.

249
 On April 23 there was another enormous walk on which she was
accompanied by the Emperor’s aide-dc-camp, Freiherr von Gemmingen,
a professor and the Countess Festetics. The expedition lasted for five-
and-three-quarter hours. Sisi raced along faster than ever as she fully
intended to tire Gemmingen out.
On the way home, he remarked, “With all due respect, Your Majesty,
that was something like a walk, quite an achievement, yet, as a
sportsman, I am used to walking.”
The Emperor was anxiously waiting for them in the Burg and was
glad to see Sisi back again at last.
“So you are still alive!” he said to Marie Festetics. “This is really
beyond words!”
“We are quite well, Your Majesty,” she replied, "only hungry, as we
have had absolutely nothing to eat,” whereupon Franz Josef laughed
heartily, exclaiming, “What? That on top of everything else? I never
heard of such a thing! And poor Gemmingen has had to endure this so-
called pleasure as well! But now go and have something to eat at once.”
Shortly afterwards they moved to Buda, but here too the walks went
on. On May 1, Sisi spent four hours walking as fast as she could. After
all this, it was most tiring to have to appear at some Court party in the
evening, as the Empress quite often had to do, although always
unwillingly. These expeditions often lasted until six o’clock in the
evening and the Emperor shook his head when the police reported to him
that it made the task of providing for Her Majesty’s safety very difficult
because nobody ever knew beforehand which way she was going, the
Empress preferring to start out without any definite object in view.
During her annual visit to Bavaria in June, the Empress tried to walk
from Feldafing to Munich, and continued the attempt for four-and-a-half
hours, during which, as the Landgravine Fürstenberg wrote to her sister,
her attendants were obliged to cease “attending” upon her. But this time
even she did not manage to cover the whole distance on foot. The same
thing happened at Ischl, where the expeditions were, of course, into the
mountains, and only good walkers could join in. The eighty-year-old
German Emperor, who arrived on a visit on August 9, excused himself
with the words, “Unfortunately I am no longer able to accompany Your
Majesty on such tours on account of my too-advanced youth.”
A visit of the Emperor to Trieste and Dalmatia had been planned for
September, and had been strongly urged by the Chief Minister, Count

250
Taaffe, with the object of creating a diversion after he had crushed an
uprising that year in the Krivošije, in the southernmost part of Dalmatia,
to counteract Italian nationalism that was gaining ground in Trieste. In
Court circles this tour was regarded as highly dangerous and everybody
was sure that an attempt would be made to assassinate the Emperor.
Franz Josef therefore decided to go alone, but Sisi insisted on staying
at her husband’s side in his hour of danger, while being furious with
Taaffe and the Governor of Trieste for suggesting such a hazardous
scheme.
Her instinct was not mistaken. On September 14, two conspirators,
one of whom was Guglielmo Oberdank, left Rome in the hope of finding
an opportunity to settle accounts with the alleged tyrant of their native
city of Trieste. On September 16, the Emperor and Empress arrived at a
somber Miramar engulfed in pouring rain. Meanwhile, the departure of
the conspirators from Rome had been notified by the watchful Austrian
Legation in Rome and they had barely crossed the frontier before the
more dangerous of two was arrested.
In spite of the streaming rain and mud, Sisi and Marie Festetics
walked along the high road from Miramar to Trieste and back, returning
home “soaked like bath sponges.”
On the seventeenth, the reception of the Emperor and Empress in
Trieste took place in reasonably good weather. There was much talk of
plots, the suite looked about anxiously, and the atmosphere was
decidedly nervous, but the opening ceremony went off without incident
and everybody was glad to reach home safely again in the evening.
The following day, Sisi was one of the first to rise, and, on leaving the
house, she read the words, “Pereat Francesco Giuseppe,” [Beware
Francesco Giuseppe] and “Evviva Oberdank” [Long live Oberdank]
scrawled on the pedestal of a statue in black paint.
Franz Josef wanted to go alone to inspect the barracks and hospital,
but Sisi spiritedly insisted on accompanying him and was waiting with
her dog Plato when the carriage came round. She told the Emperor that
she must sit on the side which could be accessed by land, on his left, so
as not to be inconvenienced by the sun, but her real intention was to
shield him that much the better. Franz Josef would only take the smallest
possible suite with him, as he said, “We cannot expect anyone who is not
absolutely indispensable to drive in with us. Here one is really in danger
everywhere.”

251
 In the evening, a ball was to take place on a Lloyd steamer, but there
was a violent storm with pouring rain. The Emperor and Empress
descended the wet marble steps at Miramar with their suite, just as
Maximilian and Charlotte had done when they started on their voyage
into the unknown. The whole scene was like some bizarre masquerade,
because everyone, including the Emperor, was wearing mackintosh
capes with their hoods drawn up over their heads, while footmen
illuminated them with torches.
They entered the boat as it tossed at the foot of the steps and met with
a heavy sea as they left the harbor. The Empress sat like a marble statue,
brightly lit up by a lantern, and with the calm, pensive expression that
she always wore in the presence of danger. Franz Josef chatted cheerfully
to keep up the others’ spirits, but Marie Festetics was thinking of Taaffe,
the Chief Minister, who was responsible for the whole rash expedition,
and was probably at that very moment sitting comfortably in his
armchair with a cigar, while the Emperor and his Consort were putting
out to sea on this wild night in a mere cockle-shell.
In the background was Miramar standing out against the darkness
with its bright lights like a fairy palace. The gunboat Luzifer, which was
to take them to the Lloyd steamship was brilliantly ablaze, decorated and
festooned with flags. But as the launch drew alongside, it tossed up and
down so violently that the Imperial party had to leap on board at some
risk to their lives. The National Anthem was struck up and a roar of
cheers went up into the night, but everybody was shivering with cold and
nerves. The gunboat at once started for Trieste, which rose before them
like an amphitheater illuminated with thousands of lights.
Sisi admired the picturesqueness of the scene, saying with a smile, “It
reminds me of Valerie when she was quite a little thing. Like all children,
she loved everything that was dangerous, and I always said to her, ‘You
may look, but not touch.’ ” But the smile faded from her lips as a flash of
lightning was followed by a terrific roll of thunder.
By the time the Luzifer reached the Lloyd steamship Berenice, on
which the ball was to take place, the storm was at its height and this time
it was absolutely impossible to get from one boat to the other. They
waited patiently for hours while the fireworks were let off in spite of the
storm. Hundreds of rockets failed to go off, but others succeeded in
mingling their stars and balls of fire with the vivid flashes of lightning.

252
 At last the Governor managed somehow to get on board the Luzifer
and begged Their Majesties not to expose themselves to the dangers of
the storm any longer. He did not mention a yet more serious reason for
their not coming on board the Berenice: a leak had just been discovered
and all hands had been ordered to the pumps.
Slowly the Luzifer returned toward the glittering lights of Miramar.
The storm was beginning to abate and the whole adventure had a sort of
wild air of romance about it. But Franz Josef, whose poetic side was not
very highly developed, suddenly dispelled the romantic atmosphere by
observing in a matter-of-fact tone, “The Countess Festetics looks so pale,
she is surely going to be sick.”
The next day was such a contrast that it hardly seemed credible, with
bright sunshine, a smooth, deep blue sea, and the garden a riot of
flowers. The sea was like a mirror as they crossed to Duino to a great
dinner given by Prince Taxis, at which the great and good of Trieste were
present. One of the guests drank the contents of his fingerbowl, then
suddenly fell strangely silent, and Sisi, who had noticed the incident,
struggled to control her laughter until tears filled her eyes.
Soon it was all over and forgotten, but when Their Majesties got back
to Gödöllö, and Sisi related their experiences to Valerie, she let rip. Her
daughter had never seen her so angry. There were tears of indignation in
her eyes as she spoke of their reception and Taaffe’s lack of forethought.
When the Chief Minister waited upon Their Majesties and spoke
complacently of the preventative measures that had been taken for their
protection, Sisi’s exasperation came to a head and she cut him short by
saying icily, “We owe it to God, and God alone, that everything went off
without incident.” And with a slight inclination of her head she turned
and left him.
Once she was home again, Sisi resumed her ordinary way of life,
although her long walks were now alternated with fencing, which she
practiced every day.
When she was in Vienna, she would take long walks at a tremendous
pace far into the Wienerwald. On one occasion, a policeman, seeing the
Empress and the Countess Festetics racing along so fast, and failing to
recognize them, imagined that two important ladies were being pursued
by somebody. He was just about to question them when he suddenly
recognized the Empress and said nothing, but followed them, panting,
until they got back to the palace.

253
 Dr. Widerhofer now declared that the Landgravine Fürstenberg could
no longer take part in these expeditions without grave risks to her health,
and they soon became too much even for the Countess Festetics, so
inquiries were made for a young and hardy maid-of-honor to act as a
walking companion to the Empress, because, as the Archduchess Valerie
wrote in her diary about this time, “Soon nobody will be able to go for
walks with her.”
At Sisi’s own request, the new maid-of-honor was again to be a
Hungarian, and this is how it was that Sárolta [Charlotte] von Majláth
entered her service.
The Empress took a growing pleasure in her daily fencing practice. A
fencing-master was engaged for her at a regular salary, and in a very
short time she had made great progress in the sport that she took as
seriously, and practiced as ardently, as everything she undertook. The
fencing jacket, the fencing gloves and the short grey tunic, very much in
the modern style, which she wore for fencing, suited her splendidly, and
her masters soon had to summon up all their skill if they were to remain
victorious in these little contests.

This year the Empress expressed a desire to spend her leave at Baden-
Baden. She took some horses with her and her life there was a perfect
orgy of exercise: gymnastics in the morning, then fencing, and after that
a six hours’ walk in the surrounding countryside, or long rides into the
mountains or on the plain. By this time Valerie was fifteen and old
enough to accompany her mother frequently. Sisi took a keen interest in
her daughter’s intellectual development, followed her simple little entries
in her diary, and was vastly entertained by the little girl’s remark on
Napoléon’s Russian campaign after she had had a history lesson. “The
Russians were artful. It would certainly never have occurred to me to
burn Moscow like that.”
Empress did her best to keep other royalty at arm’s length. Prince
Alexander of Hesse, whose son was struggling against the gravest
difficulties in Bulgaria, of which he was now Prince, tried to find an
opportunity to put in a word in his favor. He asked for an audience, but
days and weeks went by without his receiving any invitation. When he
eventually complained about this, Baron Nopcsa at last admitted to the
Prince that he was highly embarrassed. Even he hardly saw Her Majesty,
he said, as she was off riding or else roaming about on foot in the

254
mountains from early in the morning until eight o’clock at night. She ate
no dinner, so no guests were invited.
Prince Alexander persevered and at last the Empress received him.
He found her impossibly thin owing to her beauty regime and “excessive
physical training.” She answered his questions absent-mindedly with a
mere “yes” or “no,” and he had hardly made a move in the direction of
the door when she dismissed him curtly and hurried out.
Sisi was in high spirits during her visit to Baden-Baden as it amused
her to compare her own powers of endurance with those of her
entourage. The early summer saw her once more in Bavaria, and this
time, on June 8, she did succeed in walking all the way from Munich to
Feldafing along a military road that was almost completely devoid of
shade, covering the distance in seven hours, although even this
performance was soon improved upon. Everything was done secretly and
nobody ever knew when she started out or what she did, as she always
acted on the spur of the moment.
She heard with anxiety of King Ludwig’s peculiarities, which were
increasing every year. Since the death of Richard Wagner in Venice on
February 13, 1883, King Ludwig’s passion for solitude had increased all
the more and Sisi had to defend her cousin against accusation of his
insanity, which she resented.
In July she went on to Ischl, where her walks developed into what can
only be called forced marches. Seeing that she could no longer expect
her ladies-in-waiting to walk for seven hours and three-quarters, which
was now her daily quota, she made men follow with carrying-chairs for
them. A climax was reached on an expedition to the Langbathseen and
the Ammersee, when she was on her feet for eight and three-quarter
hours.
Everybody began to be anxious about her health as she was becoming
more and more thin and pale, and it was not surprising that her feet
began to pain her again, so that by the end of July she had to set some
limit to her walks.
She now took up riding again, but the country was not well suited for
it near Ischl or even at Murzsteg, where she spent some time in a
shooting-lodge at the end of August. She would sometimes ride in the
direction of the Tote Weib, a glorious but steep climb. Once her pony put
his foot through a hole in a bridge across a gorge at the bottom of which
flowed a torrent. She felt herself going down and her pony was already

255
toppling towards the abyss when a workman who happened to be passing
rushed up and saved both horse and rider.
Deeply though she loved her mother, Valerie did not share her love of
Hungary. On the contrary, it was very painful for her always to have to
speak Magyar with her and even with the Emperor at her mother’s
request. She kept intending to ask the Emperor whether she might not be
allowed to speak German with him, but being very conscientious, she
shrank from doing so for fear this might not be behaving properly toward
her mother.
The winter passed by uneventfully, and in April Sisi went abroad
once more, this time for reasons of health as she had begun to be
troubled with sciatica, although this did not prevent her from continuing
her long walks and rides. Even at Wiesbaden, where she stayed at the
beginning of April 1884, she would walk for seven hours on end, while
once she rode all the way to Frankfurt and back, which took all day. But
her incessant restlessness only made her sciatica worse, until, at the
beginning of May, she began to feel very anxious and abruptly made up
her mind to go to Amsterdam where there was a very famous doctor
called Metzger. He alarmed the Empress by saying that she would
become a cripple if she did not start a cure then and there, although he
could not guarantee that it would be successful.
A consultation took place at which a specialist in muscular injuries
from Heidelberg maintained that Metzger’s diagnosis was incorrect.
However, it was decided that Sisi should undergo a six weeks’ cure,
although she only consented when Metzger gave her permission to walk,
ride and fence.
Baron Nopcsa, the Controller of the Household, watched the whole
business rather doubtfully, remarking, “I fear Metzger has no idea what
Her Majesty means by walking, riding and fencing.”
In spite of her cure, she would walk along the seashore through wind
and rain, and when her ladies could no longer keep pace with her, she
would allow herself to be escorted by Linger, who was in charge of her
traveling arrangements, as she found his simplicity pleasing. But she had
to spend such a long time in Amsterdam for her massages that she was
forced to send her daughter home in the charge of the Landgravine
Fürstenberg. She was most unhappy at the separation, the cure was
tedious, and no improvement could be expected as she was again

256
indulging to excess in riding, walking and fencing, her record being a
walk lasting for ten hours.
Metzger’s manners were most uncouth. He was very curt with her,
and although she was quite unaccustomed to this, for that very reason it
impressed her.
She had recently got into the habit of eating nothing but drinking a
great deal of milk, which in the long run was bad for her digestion. She
wrote to Valerie every day, telling her that she had only to telegraph and
she would break off her cure and come at once.
“I would a thousand times rather continue to put up with my sciatica,”
she wrote, “than that you should suffer in any way.” She faithfully
reported progress to her daughter. “My knee was swollen after my
march,” ran one letter. “I rode four horses, only one of them any good.
Achilles is howling across the waves. Now I am going to fence. It is only
simple practice with the little lieutenant … I love the sea. It is the last
thing I look at before going to bed … As I walk along the shore, I could
cry out loud. Never was anything so beautiful. But I enjoy the prospect
of Heidelberg as it means that we shall soon meet again, and I never
know any peace without my Valerie. Now I must go to Metzger again.
He finds me to have aged and grown wrinkled.”
Sisi arrived at Feldafing in the middle of July. She was sunburned and
looked very well, but was still very nervous and “fidgety,” as Valerie put
it, and in ecstasies over Metzger and his blunt ways. He had at least
succeeded in making the Empress eat good, regular meals again instead
of starving herself, as she had done for the last few years for the sake of
preserving her slender figure. Not even her most faithful and devoted
admirers had succeeded in achieving this before. When Metzger told her
that, if she went on as she was doing, she would be an old woman in two
years’ time, she began eating again.
Her persistence in walking or riding in the pouring rain for hours on
end, however, was too much for her health. Valerie’s shoes were often,
she said, “like boats,” and it was quite usual for the Empress to ride into
Munich and back again in the rain to see her friend Irene Paumgartten,
now an ailing, half-crazed, but uncommonly lively old maid who had got
into spiritualism and talked excitedly about her conversations with the
spirits.
Sisi returned to Ischl, where a visit from the Archduchess Stéphanie
was announced, but instead of "moping at home” with her, as the

257
Empress put it, she decided to make an expedition up the Hutteneckalm.
She ascended the Salzberg at such a “senseless pace,” to use Franz
Josef’s phrase, that all the others were left behind completely out of
breath. Soon she was out of sight of everyone, and not until then did the
Crown Princess relax, as she was always quite subdued in the Empress’s
presence.
As Valerie grew up, the intimacy between her and Sisi became even
deeper. She recognized how like her mother she was and got on very
well with her. “But all the same,” she wrote in her diary, “there are so
many impenetrable barriers between us that would not exist if we had not
the same unyielding, erratic character, the same passionately
uncompromising, impatient judgment, and the same capacity for extreme
enthusiasm, arising though it does from such opposite motives in the two
of us …”
“Mamma talked to me about the poetry of her life of ideas, which
nobody suspects, nobody understands,” she wrote on another occasion
and she implored her mother to give expression to this inner life of
poetry.
This suggestion was a ray of light for Sisi. She was now in her forty-
seventh year, but had not written any poems for nearly thirty of them.
She seemed to welcome Valerie’s suggestion and was delighted to find
that her daughter understood her so well, although she still railed against
mankind in general.
“Oh, this shrinking from contact with people,” wrote Valerie. “How
Mamma would be adored if she only wished it!”
The Empress discussed with her daughter all the members of her
entourage. While in attendance on the Archduchess Sophie, the
Landgravine Therese Fürstenberg had been strongly inclined to criticize
Sisi, but the Empress had now taken her to her heart and considered her
the only one of her Austrian ladies who was worth anything, finding far
greater resourcefulness in her than in Sárolta Majláth or Aglaë
Auersperg. She recognized that the Landgravine did not gossip or say
nasty things about others, and was always cheerful and grateful.
On August 6, the old German Kaiser Wilhelm I, who was still
incredibly hale and hearty at the age of eighty-seven, paid a visit to the
Emperor and Empress at Ischl. Happening to be left alone with Valerie
for a moment, he asked her in his Berlin accent whether she
accompanied her “Frau Mama” on her “Jewalttouren”

258
[“Gewalttouren” – violent expeditions]. Shortly afterward, Gisela and
Leopold arrived on a visit, and Franz Josef felt, as usual, some
impatience at seeing how Sisi seized every opportunity to show how
much she preferred Valerie over her elder daughter.
On September 11, the Empress made an excursion to Mariazell as she
had vowed to make a valuable offering to the Church if she recovered
from her sciatica; and although the pain was not much better yet, she
made an offering of a medallion set with diamonds, emeralds and rubies,
and a head of Christ in mosaic.
Once, as the Empress and Valerie were out walking in the country,
they met a disabled soldier with only one arm, dressed in tattered clothes
and with a little bag at his side. Without stopping, he pointed
heavenwards, saying: “Don't you see Mary up there with the Child?”
The Empress was struck by this, hurried after the man, and began to
talk to him. He rambled on about Radetzky, the Emperor and the
Fatherland, impressing on her all the while that she must pray a great
deal, and constantly pointing up to the heavens. Suddenly, he recognized
the Empress and fell on his knees weeping, but then he again confused
her with the Blessed Virgin and talked so disconnectedly that Sisi hardly
knew whether to laugh or cry, so she rewarded him handsomely and he
went off blessing her.
A few days later, the grays drawing her carriage, which had been
standing too long, bolted when both she and Valerie were in it.
Fortunately, no harm was done, but Sisi was upset all day because
Valerie had been in the carriage, and kept attributing their good fortune
to the disabled soldier’s blessing. She was always on the lookout for
omens and favorable signs, especially where they concerned her
daughter’s welfare. “The less there is wrong with me,” the child wrote in
her diary, “the more anxious Mamma often is, and it is so boring.”
The autumn found Sisi once more at Gödöllö and Buda, where on
November 11 she received a visit from Queen Carmen Sylva, who,
although small, was still youthful and active, with a fresh, kindly red
face. She got on very well with Sisi and also encouraged her to write
poetry, because, she said, it is an excellent lightning-conductor for so
many things in life.
Valerie observed Carmen Sylva with interest, but was annoyed
because Andrássy was escorting the Queen and sat next to her at table.

259
The Emperor’s daughter hated the Foreign Minister and believed that he
returned her hatred with at least equal intensity.
After this visit they returned to Vienna, where the Imperial family had
lately taken to appearing more frequently at the Burg Theater. Sisi did
not go that often, except when Lewinsky was acting – although she
would occasionally summon this particular actor to the palace to read to
her instead – but Franz Josef often went. Since November 1883 there had
been a new actress at the Burg Theater named Katharina Schratt, whom
the Emperor liked very much, regarding her as a true daughter of Vienna:
simple, ingenuous and natural, and quite the opposite of all the tedious
ceremonial with which he was always surrounded. In some respects he
found affinities between her nature and Sisi’s, although she was less
complicated and unusual, and, above all, was never unhappy or afflicted
with vague yearnings. He did not know her personally yet, but that was
how she appeared to him on stage.
The Crown Prince did not like her as much, his tastes being very
different. At that time he was going through a phase of great hopes and
enthusiasm for liberty such as Sisi had once experienced, although he
now found her far too lukewarm in relation to these questions. Another
thing that tended to make the Empress and her son drift apart was that
she did not feel particularly drawn toward the Crown Princess Stéphanie
and they avoided each other’s company by mutual consent for fear of
friction. Rudolf was attached to his wife, wrote her the most affectionate
letters, and was always glad to return to her and his child, although he
was certainly not meticulously faithful. He allowed himself, in fact, the
greatest license, although he concealed this carefully from his parents
and even from his own household.

In January 1885, Sisi started the year valiantly by being present at the
first of the usual Court and public balls in Budapest, but she was seized
with such a “Court-ball headache” afterwards, as Valerie called it, that on
January 19 she withdrew to Miramar to recover for a few days by the
seaside.
She took with her the works of Heinrich Heine, in which she had
become more and more absorbed lately as they appealed to her critical
and satirical tendencies, as well as to her love of lyrical poetry. Homer’s
‘Iliad’ had also become her inseparable companion, and during the last
year she had become so enthusiastic about Achilles that she ordered a

260
copy of Herterich’s statue of the dying Achilles and had it set up initially
by the seashore in the garden at Miramar. In March, after a short stay in
Vienna for the Industries Ball, her sciatica returned due to her usual over-
indulgence in exercise, and she felt bound to go to Dr. Metzger again for
the same cure as in the previous year.
This time she did not take Valerie with her, but traveled to Holland
with only one lady-in-waiting. Remembering her conversation with
Valerie, and full of the influence of Heine and the poetry of the sea, she
now began to compose poetry again, the main themes of which were the
heroic figure of Achilles and the sea, whose changing aspects she
admired so much from her villa at Zandvoort that, on hearing of this, a
builder proposed to build her a house on the same site. Sisi, however,
rejected his proposal.

Out, out across the sea so wide a mighty longing drives me!

she wrote in one of her poems, but nonetheless, her mind was busying
itself with the thought of building a palace. Soon, however, she came to
the conclusion that no one spot on earth could bind her for long, and she
composed a “Reply to the Master Builder,” which ran as follows.

A palace they would build me

Here on the North Sea strand,
With lofty domes all golden
And all that’s gay and grand …

Ah, greatly do I love thee,

Thou harsh tempestuous sea,
Thy wildly tossing billows,
Thy storms that rage at me.

But love endures no fetters –

Must needs go wandering,
To nothing constant ever –
Palace or wedding ring.

O’er thee, like thine own seabirds,

I’ll circle without rest;

261
 For me earth holds no corner
To build a lasting nest.

On returning to her villa from Amsterdam after her treatment, Sisi

would often go out in a boat, usually at sunrise or sunset, and her
impressions of the sea, with its myriad waves and aspects, inspired her to
write many poems.

O had I songs as many

As thou hast waves, my sea,
I’d write them in these pages
And bring them all to thee.
All that I feel and ponder,
These errant thoughts of mine
How gladly I could sink them
Deep in thy crystal shrine.
How happy to be near thee,
On thee to feast mine eyes,
My first joy in the morning,
My last when daylight dies.

Sisi would watch the flight of the slender, graceful gulls for hours,
and she developed a fanciful idea that she really resembled a seagull in
her whole nature and character, thirsting for liberty on the broad ocean.
She remembered how Ludwig II of Bavaria had compared himself to an
eagle which loves to make its home high on the steepest crag and is king
of the mountains, just as the seagull is queen of the seas, and she wrote a
little poem in his honor while she was at Zandvoort.

Thou Eagle high-throned on the mountains,

The seagull swift circling below
Sends greetings from foam-crested billows
To thee in thy kingdom of snow.

Looking back over her life, she next composed a little

autobiographical poem entitled ‘The Butterfly’ [Der Schmetterling],
describing her young days from her childhood to her flight to Madeira,

262
and comparing herself to the butterfly as it unfolds its fragrant wings,
enjoying the beauty of life and seeing the world as a paradise.
The Empress surrendered herself entirely to her dreams. She often
saw a stranger at Zandvoort whose well-proportioned form and head full
of character fascinated her, as did everything that was beautiful. She was
capable of going into ecstasies over an attractive person she had
discovered, whether man or woman, and this stranger to whom she had
never addressed a word, and never did, cast such a spell over her that she
poured out her heart in the following verses.

Away, away from thee! No more can I endure it! My

frenzied heartbeats stun and send my sick mind reeling. I
close mine eyelids fast. No more will I gaze on thee …
Peace, peace at any price, ere all my senses fail me! For
when this day I saw thee, I strove myself to master – else
– as though God were nigh me – clasping my hands
imploring, I could have called upon thee and kneeling
sunk before thee … And ah! the pain and anguish! The
storm that raged within me! Is this, then Nemesis?
Because my heart for earthly love did fickle and
unfaithful prove?

But her dreams were rudely interrupted when, on the very day she
had written these verses, a well-dressed Dutchman named Leon
Bindshuyden struck aside her fan with his umbrella in the streets of the
city. He was immediately arrested by one of the detectives attending her
and nothing more came of the incident. The man alleged that he did not
know who the Empress was but had only been curious to see the face of
the lady who always hid it behind a fan. The Dutch Government
expressed regret, but this was a little warning to Sisi who went around on
her travels abroad with the utmost unconcern and usually without any
security.
Her cure was now nearly over, and this time Metzger's massages had
been more successful as the Empress had not gone on as many
exhausting walks or rides as in the previous year. She now decided to
return home by way of Heidelberg and Feldafing, and wrote farewell
verses addressed to the sea, concluding as follows.

263
 When o’er thy lonely wastes of sand
Shall break another day,
On swiftest pinions borne afar
I shall have soared away.

The snowy cloud of circling gulls

Still on their way will speed;
One will be gone – but which of them
Thou wilt not even heed.

She critically reviewed the poems of which, as she put it, she had
been “guilty” over the last month, and came to the conclusion that she
would leave poetry alone in future and go in for fencing, riding and
walking again now that the pain in her feet was less acute. She knew
perfectly well that her poems were not masterpieces, so she went out in a
boat and dropped most of them overboard as a present “to the codfish
and soles,” to quote her own ironic verses.
At Heidelberg, she found Valerie waiting for her with a fencing
master and a collection of horses. It was glorious weather and the
meeting was a happy one as Valerie was quite proud of Sisi’s poems
which had occupied her mind and acted as a safety-valve for her varying
moods.
From Heidelberg, the Empress had meant to go on to Switzerland
with her mother and visit the ruins of Habsburg, but inquiries through
diplomatic channels in Bern raised the fact that the Swiss Government
would not be pleased to see the Empress of Austria visiting the former
seat of the House of Habsburg. There had been persistent rumors that the
Emperor wished to purchase it and this would not have pleased the
Federal Council.
By the end of May, Sisi was at Feldafing, where she found the time to
read. By now she knew almost the whole of the ‘Iliad’ by heart.
Worldwide interest had been aroused by Schliemann’s remarkable
excavations and romantic finds at Tiryns, and the Empress was filled
with longing to look upon the scenes of her favorite epic with her own
eyes and absorb herself in the ideas of the Homeric world.
“My body is still here,” she wrote on June 10, 1888, “but my soul has
flown on ahead of it to Troy. If only I could go there!”

264
 On June 20, she visited King Ludwig’s palace on the Roseninsel with
her daughters Gisela and Valerie. She took with her the poem that she
had written to the King at Zandvoort, copied it out, placed it in a sealed
envelope addressed to him, and left it in one of the rooms in the castle.
About this time she recalled her adventure at the masked ball in 1874,
and wondered what the young man with whom she had enjoyed such an
interesting conversation was doing. She had never seen him again but
had occasionally noticed his name in the papers. And since 1876, when
her ladies-in-waiting had made an unsuccessful attempt to get her letter
back from Fritz Pacher, she had neither seen him nor written to him.
She now composed a poem entitled ‘Long, Long Ago,’ which she
called “The Song of the Yellow Domino,’ and would very much have
liked to send it to him. But in order to be sure it would reach his hands
safely after so long a time, she wrote to him as before under the name of
Gabriele, asking him to send her his address and photograph.
This letter astonished Pacher and caused him some concern, as
although it seemed genuinely to come from the “yellow domino,” he was
afraid he might be the victim of a practical joke. He was therefore
cautious and did not send his portrait, but gave his address and replied in
the following terms.

Vienna, June 9, 1885.

Dear Yellow Domino,

I hardly know what could have surprised me more than

receiving this sign of life from you.

To say that I was thunderstruck is a mild way of

expressing my feelings – far too mild. How much has
happened during the last eleven years! You are probably
still as radiant as of old in your proud beauty, while I am
a bald, respectable but happy, husband, with a wife
resembling you in height and figure, and a dear little girl.

After these eleven long years you can, if you think fit, lay
aside your domino and throw light upon the mysterious

265
 adventure that has interested me more than any other I
have experienced.

You see that I still have my honest old ‘German’ nature,

with its same old faults. Anything coming from you must
needs be good, so do send what it is that you have to
send. Whatever it may be, it will give me the same
heartfelt pleasure as any news from you does …

On October 14, Pacher received an inquiry from the “red domino” as

to whether he had been induced to have his “fatherly bald head”
photographed in the meantime as they would like so much to see him as
a husband. The letter was quite inoffensive and contained no suggestion
that the writer felt any distrust of Fritz Pacher, but he took it in the wrong
spirit. He really believed now that he was being made fun of, so he lost
his temper and answered as follows:

Vienna, October 22, 1885.

Honored reddish-yellow domino,

I am really sorry that you still find it necessary to play at

hide-and-seek with me after the lapse of eleven years. It
would be great fun to unmask after such a long time, and
a nice ending to that Shrove Tuesday in 1874, as, in the
long run, an anonymous correspondence loses its charm.

Your first carnival letter was a pleasure to me, but the

latest one an annoyance. A man does not like not being
distrusted when he knows he has given no cause for
distrust. Farewell, and no offence meant!

When Frau Ferenczy showed Sisi this letter, she threw it aside in with
some irritation as she was not used to being addressed in such a tone, and
quite forgot that she was nothing to the writer but an unknown masked
lady. She was about to say something sharp, but laughed it off, merely
remarking, “Very well then, he simply will not get what I had intended
for him,” and the poem was not sent on to him at that time.

266
 The Empress felt it acutely that she could no longer take such
liberties with her health as in earlier years. In addition to the pain in her
feet, she now suffered from frequent headaches and seldom rode as the
shaking was too much for her. Her incessant headaches depressed her so
much that she now gave way to depression too easily, although to all
outward appearance her forty-years of life had left no trace upon her.

Meanwhile, the political situation in the Balkans had taken a critical turn.
The state of affairs created by the Congress of Berlin could not last and
some modification was urgently necessary. Count Kálnoky’s efforts were
directed toward maintaining some sort of stability in the relationship
between his country and Russia, strained though they were, and he did
not want to make matters worse by active intervention in the Balkans, as
Andrássy still wished, although his advice no longer carried its former
weight.
A meeting with the Tsar was arranged for August 25 and 26 at
Kremsier, for which event Sisi accompanied Franz Josef. The theatrical
company that had been delighting everybody at Ischl and included
Katharina Schratt, among other actors from the Burg Theater, also
traveled to Kremsier, where it gave a gala performance, after which the
leading actors were presented to the Emperor and Empress, and received
their cordial congratulations.
From Kremsier, Sisi returned to Ischl, where she resumed her long
walks with Valerie. When it was impossible to go far, she would walk in
all weathers as far as the neighboring Jainzen, which Valerie called
“Mamma’s magic mountain.” This was where Sisi liked to spend her
time best, writing poetry, dreaming, and pouring out her heart to her
daughter, who was her dearest and most intimate friend and whose diary
is a truthful reflection of the Empress’s innermost feelings from day to
day.
On September 6, Sisi took her daughter up a side of the mountain that
she had persistently avoided before and showed her the little chapel that
she had caused to be built there as a surprise for her. It contained a
beautiful image of the Virgin, beneath which were the opening verses of
one of Sisi’s poems, calling down blessings on the house and
neighborhood where they had been staying. The rest of the poem she
gave to her daughter who was now seventeen years old. In it she
commended Valerie’s future to the Blessed Virgin as she was already

267
looking forward sadly to the day when Valerie would marry and leave
her.
“I have a feeling,” she said, “that your eldest boy will be a cardinal
and the second one a poet.”
Sisi continued to write verses, although she often made fun of her
own efforts. She only hoped that the world at large would not laugh at
her as it did at Queen Carmen Sylva of Romania who had just sent
Valerie a portrait of herself looking perfectly ridiculous, with her “untidy
hair like a blue-stocking’s,” wearing the Romanian national costume and
writing poetry in a forest, “just like an actress,” Sisi said.
On September 9, the Empress, accompanied by Valerie and Gisela,
who was visiting her, drove to the sporting estate of Eisenerz to a
shooting lodge near Radmer. Gisela and Valerie differed very much in
taste, appearance and feelings, but got on very well together, and Valerie
admired Gisela as a model wife and mother.

Sisi’s health was still far from good, and since she could no longer walk
as much as she would have liked, she thought of going on a long sea-
voyage in September. Sharing as she did her family’s Greek sympathies
and enthusiasm for the antique world, she longed to see the excavations
at Tiryns and Mycenae, and at the same time pay a visit to
Constantinople and Suez, and it was arranged that on October 5 she
should leave on the yacht Miramar for a month’s cruise in the Aegean
and the Levant.
Her route lay past Lacroma, Lissa and Corfu, which again fascinated
her. The Austrian consul there, Baron Alexander Warsberg, was a
specialist in Greek antiquities and had published a history and
description of Corfu in his two works entitled ‘Odysseische
Landschaften’ [Scenes from the Odyssey] and ‘Das Reich des Odysseus’
[The Realm of Odysseus]. He was the one, therefore, who was chosen to
receive the Empress and to act as her guide.
She had not yet read his books, so he promised to have them sent to
her at once. Sisi was particularly enraptured with an expedition to a little
island which, according to the Odyssey, was formerly a ship but had
been turned to stone just before reaching port by the wrath of Neptune.
On it stands a little Greek church in a cypress grove. A sad, taciturn
monk received the Empress and conducted her to a grave in which,
twelve years beforehand, he had laid to rest his only companion, a man

268
of seventy-nine. The voyage continued past Santa Maura, the island
poetically hallowed by the death of Sappho, then around the mainland of
Greece to the Dardanelles, where the Miramar arrived on October 21.
Meanwhile, complications in the Near East had grown more acute,
and the antagonism between Russia and Austria was reflected in their
policy toward Bulgaria. There were two parties in Austria, one of which
– toward which the Crown Prince and Andrássy inclined – was in favor
of a vigorous approach, while the other – led by Kálnoky, the Minister
for Foreign Affairs – was anxious to avoid becoming involved in a
serious war.
“In my opinion,” wrote the Crown Prince about this time to Von
Latour, “much might be done even now. But there is an utter lack of
decisiveness here. They are even more irresolute than ever before … The
Empress is absent on a cruise in the East at the most unfortunate of
moments.”
Sisi had wanted to visit Constantinople, but in view of the seriousness
of the situation, Franz Josef had to telegraph that unfortunately he could
not consent to her going through the Dardanelles or landing at Smyrna.
Accordingly, she merely visited the ruins of Troy, where she was deeply
moved as she stood before the mound indicated by tradition as the grave
of her hero Achilles. The Landgravine considered it “a lack of respect”
that this supposed grave should be a mere heap of stones with a deep
hole in it, but Sisi celebrated it in a poem in which she represented the
sun, moon and stars as pausing on their daily or nightly round to pay
their tribute to the lonely mound.
In spite of the Emperor’s orders, they had to call in at Smyrna in
order to take in coal, and the news of the Empress’s arrival ran around
the town like wildfire. The Austrian consul donned full dress in readiness
to receive her, the soldiers turned out with their bands, the local
authorities put on their best clothes, and the whole population of the city
assembled.
Sisi now ordered the state launch to be got ready, and her hairdresser,
Frau Feifalik, got into it and was rowed up and down the harbor and
greeted with cheers every time it drew near the shore. Meanwhile, a little
boat landed some distance away. Sisi and the captain of the Miramar
stepped ashore in their everyday clothes without attracting attention,
wandered through the whole city undisturbed, visited the bazaar, had
coffee at a public coffee house, and returned to the yacht safe and happy,

269
so that, as the Landgravine Fürstenberg remarked in her diary, the wishes
of Emperor and the Empress were gratified.
They next went on to Rhodes and Cyprus, the consuls, to their
disappointment, always being sent on ahead with the ladies-in-waiting,
while the Empress wandered through the town as she had done in
Smyrna. If the two parties met, as they did in the street of the Knights of
St. John in Rhodes, the other party, at the Empress’s express request, had
to take no notice of her.
But by the time she reached Port Said, Sisi had had enough of her
voyage and described, in an ironic poem in the style of Wilhelm Busch,
how the seagull from the North Sea, having come on a visit to her sisters
in the south, did not find that spot particularly beautiful.
The verses ended as follows.

And now that I have seen you,

My sisters all, bonjour.
For I admit quite freely
I long for the retour.

On November 1, the Miramar returned to its haven near the palace of

the same name, and all the officers were invited dinner and cordially
thanked. That very same afternoon, however, Sisi took an umbrella and
went for a walk in pouring rain. On seeing a girl go by thinly clad and
shivering with cold, she threw a shawl around her shoulders and handed
over her own umbrella, saying, “There, I make you a present of them,”
after which she walked home through a perfect deluge.

Sisi hoped that her sea voyage had cured the sciatica in her feet, and
upon returning to Vienna was free of it, at least initially.
She found Franz Josef worried and upset by the Balkan crisis, which
in November led to a war between Serbia and Bulgaria. Since both
Russian and Austrian interests were involved, all such developments
seemed to indicate a clash between the two great empires.
While the Empress was at Gödöllö in December, her sciatica returned
and was so acute at times that she could not even go out in the garden,
until, on December 1885, she declared in despair that she must leave at
once for Amsterdam to consult Dr. Metzger. Valerie endeavored to calm
her down and pointed out that there was a famous sciatica specialist in

270
Vienna. She was very sorry for her mother, but felt that her despair was
out of all proportion to the gravity of her illness. Sometimes the Empress
went so far as to say that it was a torture to live and hinted at suicide.
But Franz Josef did not take this seriously, merely rejoining, “Then
you will go to hell,” whereupon Sisi would reply, “There is already hell
on earth.”
Having always done all he could to anticipate his wife’s every wish,
this made him most unhappy at times. It was most painful for him, on
returning home in search of relaxation from his political anxieties, to be
met with nothing but complaints. He anxiously discussed with Dr.
Widerhofer what was to be done and resigned himself with a sigh to the
likelihood that further cures would continue to be necessary, involving
frequent absences on the part of the Empress.
In spite of her health, Sisi did fulfil her public duties that winter and
was present at the Court ball on January 28, 1886. She took a greater
interest in these festivities now that Valerie was grown up and suitors for
her hand were already beginning to appear. At this ball the Archduchess
Valerie danced a quadrille with the Archduke Franz Salvator of the
Tuscan line of the House of Habsburg. The same thing happened at the
next ball, and Sisi noticed that the young Archduke was paying marked
attention to her daughter. Her relationship with Valerie was like that of
an elder to a younger sister, and she now discussed her future with her
for the first time, promising that she would never allow any pressure to
be put on her to take the most important step in life against her will.
“If you are bent upon marrying a chimneysweep,” she said bluntly, “I
will place no obstacles in your way. But I have a sort of inkling that one
day Franz Salvator will be your husband.”
At first this did not quite fit in with the Emperor’s plans. His idea was
that the Crown Prince of Saxony, the nephew of his great friend Albert,
would be the right husband for his daughter, and it was said that the
Prince was shortly to come to Vienna.
This news gave Sisi food for deep and unhappy reflections. Until now
she had not seriously faced the thought that one day she would have to
lose her daughter, but she felt it would not be so hard if Valerie did not
have to leave her own country. When it seemed that she might have to go
abroad, Sisi was in despair, and Valerie once more realized, to her alarm,
that she was really the only link attaching Sisi to life, because, since his

271
work occupied him from early morning until evening, Franz Josef was
unable to devote himself exclusively to his wife.

The older the Emperor and Empress grew, the more the differences
between their characters came out. On the one side were a matter-of-fact
spirit, devotion to duty and hard work; on the other, passionate surrender
to the idea prevailing at the moment, introspection and an everlasting
struggle between imagination and reality. And although Sisi longed for
something to occupy her, she had really nothing to do. The Emperor was
naturally suited to his functions as a ruler, but Sisi was absolutely
unsuited to her position.
The Crown Prince was growing increasingly independent and able to
stand on his own feet, and was passing through a period of political
storm and stress such as Sisi, too, had experienced in her day. The
curious thing was that when Rudolf was expected to dine with his
parents, Sisi dressed more beautifully than when some stranger was
invited. The Princess Gisela said laughingly that the whole family
regarded Rudolf as a person to be treated with particular respect. The
Crown Prince did not much care for his Bavarian relatives, considering
himself superior to them, which was bound to annoy Sisi, and this
unfortunately caused her to make herself scarce. Her headaches and
sciatica made her escape from the Court of Vienna as often as she could.
On February 6, 1886, she left for Miramar, intending to take a short
sea voyage, but on February 11, the Crown Prince had what was said to
be a severe attack of peritonitis and cystitis, so she did not venture to sail
from Miramar but returned home to see her son, who was shortly
afterwards sent to Lacroma. So it was not until March 2 that she started
out with Valerie for her usual spring cure which was to take place that
year at Baden-Baden.
The days there hung heavy on her hands as she could not ride or even
walk, but would sit in the woods reading, for preference Heinrich
Heine’s descriptions of his travels, with their blend of ruthless irony and
true poetic feeling. She found much that was akin to her own nature in
these writings, or imagined that she did. She would turn eagerly to
passages full of world-weary discontent and apply them to herself, and
she even delighted in the scoffing and atheistic ideas that are scattered
about in his works.

272
 She had long discussions with the Princess Gisela, who was far from
sharing her passion for Heine. Sisi would wonder why mankind should
have to suffer so much for one sin of Eve and was, indeed, born to
nothing but suffering. The poison, which Heine himself admitted to
being present in his poems, was beginning to have its effect upon her and
to affect her belief in God, which had, so far, stood firm in spite of all her
doubts and liberal tendencies that were so much opposed to rigid
clericalism.
At the beginning of June, Sisi returned home through Munich and
Feldafing, to receive reports of Rudolf’s improved health. His visit to
Lacroma seemed to have done him good, although it was said that the
cure was not complete. Outwardly, however, he seemed quite well and
began to resume his former way of life, so that Sisi thought his condition
less serious than it really was.
At the same time she heard that Andrássy was seriously ill, and
commissioned Baron Nopcsa to write and tell him that he should take
care of himself and go to Karlsbad.
Nopcsa took this opportunity to tell the Minister something about his
mistress’s state mind.
“Her Majesty,” he wrote on June 10, 1886, in a letter that is preserved
in the archives of the Andrássy family, “expects you to do whatever the
doctors tell you, if not for your own sake, then at least for hers. Live
prudently! ... Her Majesty, thank God, is doing well, but unfortunately
her state of mind is not such as I would wish to see it. There is no reason
for it that I can see, yet for all that she has an uneasy mind and she leads
such an utterly isolated life that she makes herself worse.”
Nopcsa’s cool, practical mind took a concerned view of the future, as
although he was only the Empress’s servant and desired what was best
for her, he was by no means blind to her weaknesses. The Empress had
never suffered any really serious misfortune yet, although so many were
in store for her. But she had little or no suspicion of this. The seriousness
of the Crown Prince’s illness was made light of to her, and although she
watched his intellectual development uneasily, she could not foresee
what results might be produced by such ideas in the head of one destined
for a throne. She too had dallied with ideas of liberty and the
cosmopolitan theories of such literary men and journalists as were now
influencing the Crown Prince.

273
 Sisi withdrew more and more into herself, until, as she put it, she
became “too lazy to talk,” even omitting to repeat her remarks when the
Emperor failed to understand her. Valerie had usually to fling herself into
the breach on these occasions, so that Franz Josef remarked to Sisi with a
laugh, “It is really fortunate that we have this speaking-trumpet. But,” he
added sadly, “what will it be like when we no longer have her?”
In spite of his wife’s altered frame of mind, Franz Josef remained
devotedly attached to her. It was he who had the villa built in the
Tiergarten at Lainz, for which his wife’s love of luxury has been held
responsible. This villa ministered, so to speak, to the Emperor and
Empress’s special weaknesses. The Emperor was an enthusiastic
sportsman, and the Tiergarten had been renowned for its magnificent
game since the eleventh century, while the Empress loved its quiet
solitude, as contrasted with the Burg and the imposing “pleasure palace”
of Schönbrunn, where she always went into residence with the greatest
displeasure.
The palace at Lainz was built in a French-Italian Renaissance style in
keeping with the taste of the time. The internal decorations, designed by
Makart, were characterized by a heavy and pompous splendor, especially
in the Empress’s bedroom, that seems simply unthinkable nowadays. The
finest thing in the palace was the Empress’s gymnasium, decorated in the
Pompeian style and containing every possible form of apparatus,
including a precision pair of scales that Sisi consulted daily. Of course
there were magnificent stables and an outdoor riding school because,
when building operations had been started, it was not foreseen that Sisi
would almost have given up riding. Orders were now given to dispose of
her stables in Vienna, Ischl and Gödöllö, retaining only a few of her
favorite horses.
On May 24, after her return from Bavaria to Vienna, Franz Josef
drove her out to see the Hermesvilla, as the new house at Lainz was
called. The Empress shook her head over her bedroom and Valerie
remarked that it was grand and up-to-date, but not homely, and Franz
Josef said, “I shall always feel afraid of spoiling things.” But then he
looked out of the window, from which a whole herd of game could be
seen, and felt as pleased as the Empress did when she found that she
needed only to take a few steps outside the villa to find herself in
woodland. She was particularly delighted at being able to reach her own
apartments by a little spiral staircase.

274
 But the house had not turned out what the Emperor and Empress had
originally intended it to be – a small, modest but comfortable “Buen
Retiro” for their old age. It had grown into a palace that would involve
considerable expenditure and a large staff of servants.
In June, 1886, Sisi again departed on a long visit to Feldafing. On the
eighth, her brother-in-law, Count Trani, died in Paris, and she now took
his widow and little daughter to her heart in the most affectionate way.
From this time onwards she paid her widowed sister an annual allowance
of 40,000 marks, half of which came out of her own pocket, while the
Emperor Franz Josef made himself responsible for the rest. Sisi was
always faithful to her family and her loved ones.

275
Chapter 12

Death of Ludwig II. Heine and the Homeric World (1886-1887)

It was now realized in Bavaria that the problem presented by King

Ludwig’s condition defied any simple solution, and the members of the
ruling House were already alive to the fact that its prestige would be
endangered if changes weren’t made.
As early as 1871, a Munich doctor had predicted total insanity and the
last few years seemed only to confirm his diagnosis. The King’s
utterances were often incoherent. He would carry on long conversations
at table with unseen guests and thrash his servants and officials. Due to
his taste for the arts, his extravagances had led to an accumulation of
debts amounting to ten million marks, in spite of which he was
demanding a further ten million for his architectural schemes and his
theaters. He raved at the ministers when he presented them with demands
for money, and if they could not supply it, he would entrust the raising of
it to his manservants. Scandalous episodes took place at Court in which
soldiers in his Light Horse regiment were involved.
In short, matters could no longer go on as they were, and on May 8,
1886, the Ministers resolved to force the King to abdicate. However, it
still came as a surprise to everybody when, on May 17, a proclamation
was issued to the effect that Prince Luitpold, the heir presumptive, would
assume the Regency, while an army order declared the King incapable of
governing owing to his mental derangement.
A deputation now waited upon the King at Neuschwanstein, but
although it had only been ordered to inform him of these measures, it
proceeded to treat him as totally insane. The first attempt failed because
everybody around the Court – footmen, peasants, workmen and such
loyal officers as Count Durckheim – supported the King, and on June 10
the deputation fled back to Munich. It was not until the eleventh that a
fresh delegation succeeded in gaining possession of his person. This time
the deputation included two doctors with warders, police and soldiers
who could be depended upon, and they took the King to the Castle of
Berg on the Starnbergersee, which had been fitted up like a regular
prison. Here the King was to remain under the care of Dr. Gudden, a
specialist in mental disease.

276
 The whole business had been managed both irresponsibly and
injudiciously. Only two days previously, the King had been treated as a
Sovereign, yet now he was suddenly informed that, according to Dr.
Gudden’s orders, ropes and a straitjacket were to be kept in readiness. He
kept repeating to Count Durckheim that he feared another attack. “But I
am not a madman,” he said, “so why should I be put under restraint?”
The abrupt contrast between his situation now and what it had been only
a day before was calculated to produce the most alarming effects.
Sisi was staying with her mother at Garatshausen when news of all
this arrived. The Duchess Ludovika was greatly agitated, and although
she had never forgiven the King for breaking his engagement with her
daughter, she pitied the poor Queen of Bavaria, both of whose sons had
now been declared insane. But when Sisi expressed doubts as to
Ludwig’s total insanity, she said it was to be hoped that he was mad as
they must be thankful that he should not be held guilty for having
brought his flourishing country and almost incredibly loyal people to
their present disastrous situation through his criminal irresponsibility.
Sisi returned to Feldafing, where she sadly heard of Ludwig’s
confinement in the Castle of Berg.
The end came after dinner on the evening of Whit Sunday, June 13.
No one will ever know what really happened during his last moments, as
the only two witnesses, the King and Dr. Gudden, are both dead, having
been found drowned in the lake at about half-past ten at night. Close
investigation pointed to a preceding struggle, but whether it was suicide
or an attempt to escape that the doctor tried to frustrate will remain a
mystery forever. What is certain is that, since Sisi was at Feldafing
entirely unconscious of what was going on, she cannot possibly have lent
any assistance to an alleged attempt at escape by providing a carriage or
anything of the kind.
On Whit Monday, June 14, the Empress Sisi and Valerie were just on
their way to breakfast when the Princess Gisela suddenly entered the
room looking quite distraught. Drawing the Empress aside, she said, “I
have something to tell you and must see you alone.”
Sisi accompanied her into the adjoining room and an agitated
conversation was heard. Then she came out of the room as pale as death,
saying, “Imagine, the King has thrown himself into the lake!”
The Empress was terribly distressed as she described the King’s sad
end, because, in spite of everything, he had many extraordinary

277
capabilities and she had many happy memories of this friend of her
youth.
“The King was no madman,” said Sisi, “only an eccentric who lived
in a world of ideas. They might have treated him more gently, and so,
perhaps, spared him such a fearful end.”
She passionately upheld this point of view in speaking to her mother,
but the Duchess Ludovika contradicted her irritably, and mother and
daughter parted on a sour note.
That same evening, when Valerie was about to say her prayers in her
mother’s room before going to bed, the Empress suddenly threw herself
full length on the ground. Valerie screamed with terror as she thought her
mother had seen some terrible vision, and she clung to her in such alarm
that in the end both of them could almost have laughed.
“All I wanted,” said Sisi, “was to pray to God in repentance and
humility to forgive me my rebellious thoughts. I have lacerated my mind
brooding over the inscrutable decrees of God in relation to time, eternity,
and retribution in the world beyond, and, wearied with fruitless, sinful
meditations, I mean in future, whenever doubts beset my mind, to say in
all humility: ‘Jehovah, Thou art great. Thou art the God of vengeance.
Thou art the God of grace. Thou art the God of wisdom.’ ”
Sisi was haunted by some old monk’s ancient prophecy that the year
1886 would be a year of terrible disasters because Easter came so late.
She could not recover from the terrible blow she had suffered and
excitedly condemned the corrective course of action taken by the
ministers in the severest terms. She did not go and see Ludwig’s dead
body, but sent a wreath and a bouquet of jasmine, with the order that the
jasmine be laid on his chest and buried with him.
The Crown Prince Rudolf visited Feldafing on his way to the funeral
and was shocked at his mother’s agitated state. The thought flashed
across his mind that one day, perhaps, a similar fate might be in store for
her, so he questioned Valerie very closely. Yet, charming though he was
on this occasion, when they visited the old Duchess at Possenhofen,
Valerie again felt that he was far too prone to set himself, as it were, on a
pedestal of haughty standoffishness, and had not learned, as his father
had done, to be first and foremost a man, and only secondly a prince.
On the morning of June 21, Sisi had a solemn requiem Mass said in
the King’s memory, after which she went to Munich and laid a wreath on
his grave in the family vault of the Wittelsbachs. The visit did her good

278
and she returned home in a calmer frame of mind, remarking that
Ludwig II was better off in his grave than if he had gone on living under
the new Government.
Everyday life and family visits now claimed her attention, but she
could not shake off the nervous agitation that had troubled her even
before the disaster. In whatever company she found herself, her
comments on the leading men in Bavaria and their recent behavior
toward the King were scathing and unrestrained, and she quite agreed
with the Countess Festetics, who wrote to Frau von Ferenczy that all the
waters of the ocean could not remove the stigma of disgrace attaching to
them for their brutal treatment of the King.
In this unbalanced state of her nerves Sisi had become virtually
estranged from her mother, and now an unfortunate incident occurred
that threatened to cause a total breach with her family. Her sister Sophie,
the Duchess of Alençon, who was staying at Possenhofen with her
daughter Louise, caught scarlet fever, and by some oversight no warning
was sent to Feldafing, with the result that Valerie unwittingly went over
to Possenhofen and asked her cousin to go for a walk with her.
She had entered the house when Louise said, “For Heaven’s sake
leave, Valerie. You ought not to have come. Mamma has scarlet fever.”
The Archduchess rushed home in alarm and met her mother hurrying
to meet her, white with terror.
“Surely you have not been to see Aunt Sophie!” she said. “I never
heard of such a thing! It is scandalous! That doctor has no conscience
whatever, nor have all the rest of them. They knew yesterday evening
that she had scarlet fever and never sent us word.”
Dr. Kerzl, the Imperial family’s doctor, declared that under these
circumstances there could be no question of infection, but poor Valerie
had to keep gargling with carbolic. The Empress decided then and there
to go home without saying goodbye to the household at Possenhofen.
She left her old home in a state of exasperation, although she did not
omit to write the usual little poem, the closing verses of which show how
violently angry and outraged she was.

Farewell, my lake. This day I cast my home into thy

depths and go forth once more into the world restless and
homeless.

279
 The doctor’s assurances were powerless to allay her fears of
infection, and she vowed that if Valerie did not catch the fever, she
would go on a pilgrimage to Mariazell and make an offering to the
shrine. She managed to make Valerie so anxious about her health that she
got to the point where she kept imagining that she had a sore throat.
“I saw myself already on my deathbed,” she wrote in her diary, and
added in brackets, “which I found vastly unpleasant.”
From Feldafing, the Empress went to Gastein, hoping that a cure
might relieve her sciatica, but Dr. Widerhofer declared that, in her
present condition, it would be dangerous for her to take the baths, so they
drove on to Ischl, Sisi walking beside the carriage while Valerie rode in
it, her usual companion being Herr von Latour, the Crown Prince’s
former tutor, who never stopped talking. He had nothing very intelligent
to say and Valerie’s comment in her diary was, “His stupidity is a
comfort to me as I believe the fact that Rudolf is what he is, and not what
he might be, is due to no more than that.” They were all annoyed because
the Crown Prince called their beloved Ischl a “frightful hole,” although
Sisi deemed it already to be getting too fashionable.
The Empress’s verses at this time were full of a morbid preoccupation
with the ideas of death, and her own death in particular, and Valerie was
alarmed at the extent to which this melancholy and disgust with life,
which she had to admit there was no cause for, were gaining control over
her mother’s mind. She wondered what would have happened if she
really had caught scarlet fever and died of it.
“It is appalling,” she wrote, “to think that I should be the only link
binding my mother to the earth.”
Valerie having escaped infection, Sisi had now to fulfil her vow. On
July 21, she went to Mariazell, where she had a Mass said at the altar of
Our Lady of Grace for the late King Ludwig. She confessed and went to
Holy Communion, pouring out her whole heart to the priest and
describing the terrible effect produced upon her by the King’s death. On
August 12, she went to the Villa Meran at Gastein, where the venerable
German Emperor was also taking the cure. She called upon him without
prior notice and also took Valerie with her to call upon the Prince and
Princess Bismarck, during which the little Archduchess said to herself,
“You are now in the presence of the cleverest man of your day.”
The Empress had met the Imperial Chancellor many years previously
and remembered having been struck by a certain hardness to his face.

280
But what she saw now was a hale and hearty old man with an expression
of mild benevolence in his pale blue eyes, while Valerie was “sorry” to
admit that she found him “positively congenial.” The old Grand Duchess
of Weimar also came to call upon Sisi, who pointedly invited her to sit
immediately opposite the clock in the hope that she would soon leave.
The visitor was very hard of hearing, and when Ssi remarked, “I am
afraid the illuminations tonight will be spoiled by the rain,” replied with
a stately inclination of the head, “I hope so!” at which both mother and
daughter restrained their laughter only with difficulty.
At last the Empress said, “My Valerie has a very severe cold in the
head. I wonder whether it is infectious,” whereupon the Grand Duchess
made a hurried departure.
At the end of August, they returned to Ischl, where the members of
the Tuscan branch of the family, including the young Archduke Franz
Salvator, were frequently their guests, rather to Franz Josef’s annoyance.
“Surely Valerie is not going to make yet another marriage inside the
family!” he said. “Whatever will be the end of us if she does? The Saxon
[i.e. the Crown Prince of Saxony] is coming to Vienna during the winter.
Now that would be a good thing and in every way appropriate.”
From Ischl they went on to Gödöllö, where the Empress led a very
different life since she had given up riding. Rising at half-past five in the
morning, she would practice gymnastics for a long time after breakfast.
Then the Emperor would join her and walk up and down discussing the
events of the day, a time which he enjoyed above all others. Sisi now had
leisure to think over the events of her past life, and once more recalled
the episode of the masked ball and the poem that she had written about
it. About this time, one of her relatives went on a long tour to South
America and she gave him a letter containing the poem to post to Herr
Pacher.
Sisi was still studying Heine with her characteristic ardor and
thoroughness, and found Robert Proelsz’s recent book on him most
absorbing.
“Heine is my companion always and everywhere,” she wrote to the
Archduchess Valerie. “Every word, every letter in Heine is a jewel.”
But most of all she loved his poems, and her pocket edition in its dark
green linen cover never left her. She considered that Heine had been
misunderstood and unjustly judged in his own country as a poet ought
not to be held up to the same standards as ordinary men. She had pictures

281
or busts of Heine put up everywhere, at Lainz and Gödöllö, in the Burg
and at Schönbrunn, and even at Ischl. Hearing that a nephew of the
poet’s, Baron Heine-Geldern, was living in Vienna, she invited him to
visit her as she had heard that he owned certain pictures and other things
that had belonged to the poet. She talked to him about the great man’s
other surviving relatives, especially his sister, the venerable Frau Emden
of Hamburg, and made up her mind to pay that lady a visit in the course
of her travels.

Since the death of Ludwig II, Sisi had never been at peace. It was now
quite clear to her that the King had been really insane, and in view of the
other cases of insanity in the House of Wittelsbach, and the many
tendencies that she shared with Ludwig II, she again began to dread the
same fate and to interest herself in the arrangements made for the care of
the insane, which were very defective at that time.
On December 11, 1886, after her return to Vienna, she paid a visit to
the main lunatic asylum for Lower Austria at Brundlfeld, appearing there
quite unexpectedly with her sister-in-law, the wife of Duke Karl
Theodor. The director was hastily summoned and appeared just as he
was, in white overalls. Sisi spent some time examining some fantastic oil
paintings in the manner of the two Breughels by the insane artist Kratky,
which represented in a confused, but not altogether unnatural manner,
the basic fact of nature that one form of being can only exist through the
death of another.
At first the staff only intended to show Sisi those parts of the
establishment in which there were no violent cases, but she insisted upon
being shown the dangerous cases, too, and did not hesitate to address
remarks to the patients. When she came to the department for the “quiet”
cases, the women patients were all sitting together in a large room,
talking, embroidering, or working at handicrafts, and rose and curtseyed
as she entered. Among them was a Fräulein Windisch, a very charming
woman of twenty-eight, who had occasional attacks of mental
derangement as the result of an unhappy love affair. The moment the
Empress entered, this young woman, who was usually quite quiet,
suddenly uttered a wild shriek, rushed at the Empress, and before
anybody could prevent her, tore off her hat. Sisi turned pale and shrank
back, but the doctor had already seized the patient.

282
 “Why, good heavens, Fräulein Windisch,” he exclaimed, “you are
usually so good.”
“What!” shrieked the unhappy woman. “Does that woman pretend
she is the Empress of Austria? I never heard such insolence! Why, I am
the Empress!”
Sisi left the room and her sister-in-law helped her to put on her hat
again. Yet, in spite of this shock, she insisted upon seeing the part of the
establishment where the violent cases were kept, wishing to convince
herself that they were not badly treated.
Just as she was on the point of leaving, she suddenly said, “I should
like, please, to pay another visit to the department where that happened.”
“Your Majesty,” replied the doctor, “I cannot be responsible for the
consequences if you do. I strongly advise you not to go back.”
“No, please,” she urged. “I must go up again.”
The director had to give way with what grace he could. Fräulein
Windisch was still sitting in the room when the Empress entered, and
sprang up and rushed at her, so that everybody feared the worst. But this
time she fell on her knees before her and begged her forgiveness most
penitently. Tears ran down Sisi’s cheeks as she waved aside the doctors
and wardresses who had formed a protective ring between her and the
patient, and, raising the young woman to her feet, took her by the hand
and comforted her with indescribable sweetness.

The Duke Karl Theodor had been trying for some time to make peace
between Sisi, her mother, and the Duchess of Alençon, but the Empress
had not yet forgotten the scarlet fever incident.
“Such stupidity and callousness are inexcusable,” she said, and for
once the Crown Prince agreed with Valerie who said this was an
exaggeration. Rudolf heard rumors of Valerie’s approaching betrothal
and asked his mother what truth there was in them, expressing his
disapproval in a cold, sarcastic manner which Valerie noticed on
Christmas Eve. He was growing more and more estranged from his
family, with the exception of the Archduke Johann Salvator, who shared
his negative, critical and bitingly satirical view of life. Sisi worried about
what might happen if Rudolf became Emperor and the Archduke Franz
Salvator her son-in-law, because, she said, it might be very
uncomfortable. Her idea was that, if war were to break out between
France and Germany before it did between Austria and Russia, the

283
Archduke might volunteer to serve in the German Army and thus put all
those who were against him to shame.
One day, while Sisi and Valerie were walking up and down in the
park at Schönbrunn, talking over the future, they met Frau Schratt, who
had conducted many conversations with the Emperor and Empress since
the first meetings at Ischl and Kremsier. It happened to be March 1, and
the actress offered the Empress a bunch of violets, because, she said, on
that day of the year they brought luck. As an acknowledgment of this
little attention, Sisi and Valerie went to the theater that evening for the
first act of a comedy by Ohnet in which Frau Schratt was playing,
although as a rule the Empress did not go to see modern pieces or lively
comedies, preferring, for instance, the ‘Oedipus Coloneus’ of Sophocles.

In the spring of 1887, Sisi elected to visit Herkulesbad in southern

Hungary, which had been described to her as wonderfully picturesque.
She walked for hours in that beautiful region with Sárolta Majláth, going
as far as the Romanian frontier, where they ate a picnic lunch in the
forest and drank some sheep’s milk brought them by a handsome
Romanian lad. Sisi would sit dreaming and writing poetry by moonlight
until late into the night and insisted upon sleeping as usual by the open
window, although her room was on the ground floor.
The inhabitants of the place had expected to see a proud,
unapproachable Sovereign, instead of which they found a simply-
mannered lady, disliking all pomp and associating with people of all
classes on equal terms, who not only loved nature but enjoyed it as few
people were capable of doing.
One of the poems that she wrote here in Magyar maintained that truth
and fidelity are to be found only in nature, to whose consolations she
could always turn without fear of disappointment. Here, too, she kept her
Heine always at her side and became so deeply imbued with his works
that she felt herself to be living in a sort of mystical communion with the
poet’s spirit.
On April 28, Queen Carmen Sylva of Romania appeared at
Herkulesbad on a visit to Sisi, and one day the conversation turned to
Heine,
“I have rather got over my admiration for him,” said Queen Carmen
Sylva, “as there are many things in his poems that I find unpleasant.”

284
 She saw that the reason why Sisi thought so highly of him was
because, like herself, he had a contempt for all externals, a bitterness, but
at the same time a touch of impishness such as characterized Sisi, and so
often drew original and startling remarks from her; but also because he
felt the same despair as she did at the falseness of the world and could
not find words strong enough to castigate its emptiness.
That evening Sisi was thinking over her conversation with Carmen
Sylva when suddenly, as she lay in bed, she saw the poet’s profile, as she
knew it from pictures, quite distinct and clear-cut before her, while at the
same time she felt a curious, unpleasant feeling as though his soul were
trying to draw her own out of her body.
“The struggle lasted for some seconds,” she said afterwards in
describing it to her daughter, “but Jehovah would not permit my soul to
leave my body. The vision faded, and in spite of the disappointment of
continuing to live, it left me happy in the confirmation of my sometimes
wavering faith, my increased love of Jehovah, and my conviction that He
sanctioned the intercourse between my soul and that of Heine.”
Receiving an incredulous response from Valerie, Sisi assured her that
she could swear to the truth of it and that she had seen the apparition
with her own eyes while fully awake.
Next day, the Empress and Carmen Sylva went for a walk in the
forest and Sisi talked of building a country house in those glorious
surroundings. The two ladies were obviously interested in each other and
eager to study the other, but certain antagonisms could be felt between
them.
“Carmen Sylva,” said Sisi to her daughter Valerie, “is very, sweet,
amusing, and interesting, but her feet are firmly planted upon the earth.
She could not possibly understand me, although I could understand her. I
am fond of her. She is so fond of narration and making up stories. It is
what she enjoys and the King is so prosaic that an abyss separates them
spiritually. Of course she does not put it as bluntly as this, but I managed
to get it out of her.”
The Empress Sisi was rather mistaken in that Carmen Sylva had
formed quite a good estimate of her. She recognized that Sisi’s character
was absolutely genuine and natural, without the slightest trace of
artificiality, and that was why she simply could not tolerate Court
ceremonies and unnecessary formality.

285
 “People have tried,” said Carmen Sylva, “to harness the fairies’ child
to the torture of etiquette and stiff, dead forms, but the fairies’ child
cannot endure bolts and bars, restraint and servitude. The fairies’ child
has hidden wings which it spreads and flies away with whenever it finds
the world unbearable.”
She recognized that Sisi had absolutely no desire for “the recognition
of the world, which she absolutely despises, but there is a prodigious
force latent in the Empress which has to work itself off somehow. The
excess of it has to find expression in riding and walking, traveling and
writing, and she has to do everything with all her might, if only to escape
the crushing pressure of circumstance.”
After Carmen Sylva’s departure, Sisi continued to enjoy her carefree
life, except for the snakes, both poisonous and nonpoisonous, that she
found everywhere. Her daughter Valerie sent her a live salamander, so
she thought of sending her one of the larger harmless snakes in return,
but when one of them tried to bite her, she gave up on the idea, merely
sending one specimen to the menagerie at Schönbrunn and another to her
friend Ada Ferenczy, who leaped back in terror when she opened the
curious cage-like box, only to find a large snake in it.
On May 13, Sisi went to Sinaia to return Carmen Sylva’s visit, and as
the Queen understood her tastes, no receptions or solemn festivities were
arranged for her. What impressed Carmen Sylva about Sisi was the way
in which she looked people straight in the eye and was quite incapable of
“draping the truth with even the slightest cloak of convention.”
At her first dinner at Sinaia, Sisi lamented the etiquette and
ceremonies that were inseparable from her rank.
“But is not your beauty a help to you?” said the Queen. “Does not
that cure you of your shyness?”
“I am not shy any longer, only bored!” replied the Empress. “They
dress me up in fine clothes and all sorts of jewels, and then I go out and
say a few words to people for hours on end until I can bear it no longer.
Finally, I hurry back to my room, tear it all off and, write while Heine
dictates to me.”
The Queen’s impression was that Sisi never said anything
commonplace, but quite often something totally unexpected, and the
Empress confided all sorts of things to Carmen Sylva that she usually
said only to her daughter, especially her reflections on the underlying
essence of Nature. The insane artist’s picture that she had seen at the

286
lunatic asylum had made an impression upon her and she considered it
perfectly true that all forms of life are cruel, the stronger devouring the
weaker, and the clever striking down the stupid, without pity, justice or
law, simply because they are the stronger.
“Do you mean to publish your poems and writings?” asked Carmen
Sylva.
The Empress replied, “I write and I compose poetry, but I do not want
anybody to see what it is like yet. Later, after many years, when we are
long dead, it will all be published.”
For quite a long time after Sisi had left Sinaia, Carmen Sylva could
not cease musing over the character of her namesake and fellow-
Sovereign.
“We are apt,” she wrote, “to accuse a person of forgetting his duty as
soon as he is unwilling to turn the wheel, the treadmill, the old
waterwheel that custom has devised for this or that caste or category of
mankind. A man has only to have the courage to be different, and to
think and act differently, to be positively stoned by those who can only
get on by going around and around on the treadmill … I always say that
fashion exists for women with no taste, etiquette for people with no
breeding, church for people with no religion, and the treadmill for those
with no imagination or elasticity.”

Sisi now returned to Vienna, and Valerie was astonished at the change in
her, noting that her mother had become unusually devout since King
Ludwig’s death, more so than she had ever known her to be before. Sisi
now submitted all things to the great Jehovah’s guidance and committed
everything to His charge.
“But,” wrote Valerie, “Mamma’s piety is of a kind all her own, unlike
that of other people, not so much communicative as ecstatic,
introspective and abstract – for instance, that cult of the dead in which
she has recently indulged, especially over Heine and Ludwig II.”
At the end of May, the Imperial family went into residence again at
the new Villa Hermes, but both Sisi and Valerie were still unable to feel
at home there.
“These marble reliefs, these luxurious carpets,” wrote Valerie, “these
fireplaces of chased bronze, these innumerable angels and Cupids, the
carvings in every hole and corner, this mannered rococo style! How I
wish we were back at home again!”

287
 They were joined by the Crown Prince who seemed to be on bad
terms with his wife, and, as Valerie remarked, “behaved as though he
wished to be taken for a man of a hundred.” When they were discussing
the question of peace or war, and mentioned the risk to his life, he
merely said with a disdainful gesture, “When on has known every
enjoyment, there is nothing left to interest one.”
Sisi was also worried about her sister the Duchess of Alençon, who
had rather a weakness for a doctor of middle-class origin, and for a
moment even contemplated obtaining a divorce and marrying him. What
the Empress feared was that she might be declared mentally disturbed as
she had been taken to Graz to a nerve specialist named Krafft-Ebing,
who had declared that a cure was necessary. The state of her nerves
proved, however, to be due to the after-effects of scarlet fever, and the
peace and quiet of the sanatorium effected a cure.
But the whole thing had shocked the Empress and she often made the
Archduchess Valerie quite impatient through her excessive concerns.
Besides, they did not agree about politics, Valerie taking a more
optimistic view of the future of Austria than her mother, who said on one
occasion, “The old, rotten stock is diseased.”
She would often say that Franz Josef was the last Emperor but one of
the House of Habsburg and repeat the ancient prophecy that it had started
with a Rudolf and would end with a Rudolf.
These gloomy predictions about the future of the Empire naturally
brought her into conflict with Franz Josef, and at such moments she
would even say that it was hard to get along with him.
“For my part,” commented Valerie, “I find it far easier to get along
with him than with her, God forgive me.”

As Carmen Sylva had said, the Empress must be “forever traveling,

traveling, traveling,” and the world was almost too narrow and small for
her to satisfy this desire as she would have wished. She had hardly
returned from Herkulesbad, where she had felt so well, and now, in July,
she was starting out for England again, passing through Hamburg.
About this time Herr Fritz Pacher suddenly received a letter with a
Brazilian stamp on it. He opened it in surprise and out fluttered a printed
page on which he found, to his great amazement, some verses entitled
‘The Song of the Yellow Domino,’ and headed with the motto ‘Long,
long ago’ in English.

288
 They ran as follows.

Thinkest thou still of that night in the glittering hall?

Twas long, long ago, long ago.
Of the night when two souls to each other did call?
Twas long, long ago, long ago.
Twas there that our friendship so strangely began.
Dost thou think of it, friend, if but now and then?
Of those heartfelt avowals, so true and profound
That we exchanged while the dance went round?
Too soon, alas! those hours went by.
A clasp of the hand and away I must fly.
Though my face must needs be veiled from thy sight,
On my soul’s hidden depths I turned a light.
Friend, what greater thing could I do than this?
Tears passed by and faded away,
But we never knew such another day.
By night I question the stars on high,
Yet never have they vouchsafed a reply.
Now near, now far methinks thou dost roam
On some other star hast thou found a home?
If thou livest, ah! send me but a sign,
Though I scarce can hope it may yet be mine.
For ’twas long, long ago, long ago!
I would wait it no more,
Wait no more!

No address was given and not a word was written by hand, but now
Fritz Pacher resolved to throw off the mask and show her that he knew
perfectly well who she was. He had never attempted any poetic flights
before, but he now resolved to reply in verse and penned some stanzas
‘To The Unknown Lady,’ which ran as follows:

’Tis long ago, yet I think of thee,

Remote though thou may’st be.
For, as I think, within me stirs
Youth’s roseate memory.

289
Recall’st thou with what haughty mien
Thy hand thou did’st refuse
At first – yet as I turned to leave,
Did’st condescension choose?

How all that evening, arm-in-arm,

We jested, laughed, conversed?
And how I nearly guessed the truth –
But thou had’st vanished first.

Yes, all of this was long ago –

But simple were thy wiles,
For majesty was written in
Thy form, thy voice, thy smiles.

The great ones of this world are not

From all caprices free,
And now, it seems, it is thy whim
To learn who I may be.

Not that my fortune ’twas to please –

No flattering dreams are mine
But from my lips the honest truth
To hear thou did’st incline.

Mankind, prostrate before thy feet,

Filled thee with naught but scorn.
Its lies, its flattering words too long
Thy noble heart had torn.

While life is his he will look back

With gladness on that day,
For thou hast feeling, wit and heart,
Whatever men may say.

“What!” thou dost cry indignantly,

“Insolent! dost thou dare,
Divining my exalted rank,

290
 To stand unbending there?”

With deference I answer: “Nay,

Whatever thou may’st be
To other, witty fair, thou’rt but
A domino to me.”

Too well I know, unless this world

Shall to disorder yield,
Forever must my humble lips
Remain discreetly sealed.

Yet I will venture this farewell –

This right at least I claim,
Praying that thou wilt evermore
Greet with a smile my name.

And think when thou dost lay aside

All grandeur and all sham:
“One faithful soul at least there is,
Knows me for what I am.”

The letter was addressed as usual to a poste restante, but months

went by and it was never claimed. After a while Pacher himself called
and inquired for it, and it was returned to him untouched. Nobody had
asked for it.
And so the adventure, which was no adventure, was at an end.
Meanwhile Sisi had stopped in Hamburg to make herself known to
the poet Heine’s sister, Frau Charlotte Emden. The aged lady naturally
received her with enthusiasm and showed her a number of letters and
manuscripts, but the Empress, to her great disappointment, was not
presented with a single specimen of Heine’s writing. She was merely
asked to accept a little seal which, she was told, he had always used.
“Let us hope that at least it is genuine,” was her private comment, but
she promised the poet’s old sister that the first member of the Imperial
House to go to Paris would lay flowers upon his grave – a promise
afterwards fulfilled by the Crown Princess Stéphanie.

291
 After the Empress’s visit to Hamburg, her love of Heine became
generally known, and whenever someone wanted to pay her some
attention, it generally took some form connected with Heine.
From Hamburg, Sisi went on to England, where she stayed at Cromer
in Norfolk for the swimming. At the end of July she wrote to her
husband that she was going on a visit to the Queen in the Isle of Wight,
shortly after which she would be coming home, to which he replied:
“Dear, beloved soul, my infinitely beloved angel, your dear letter made
me very happy as it was another proof that you are fond of me and are
glad to come back to us.”
This time Sisi had arranged to meet her husband and daughter at
Kreuth on the Tegernsee, where the marriage of her parents had taken
place nearly sixty years earlier. During Mass, Sisi called her daughter’s
attention to the fact that, over the altar-piece before which her parents
had stood on that occasion, was inscribed in large letters, “Father, forgive
them, for they know not what they do,” a discouraging omen which had
unfortunately been only too completely justified.
From Kreuth, the party made an expedition along the shores of the
glorious Achensee as far as the Achen Pass, and Sisi reveled in the
lovely scenery.
“This beautiful region,” she remarked, “is a poem of Jehovah’s and
His poems are inexhaustible in their beauty, variety and number.”
At Kreuth, too, Sisi read Valerie the poems she had written in
Cromer, and her daughter was amazed at the ease and fluency with
which Sisi composed verse, and considered much that she wrote both
beautiful and original, although much again was too original to be really
beautiful. Sisi’s brother Karl Theodor also considered her poems good,
but warned her against inquiring too searchingly into the exaggerated
ideas among which she lived, and remarked anxiously to Valerie that this
imaginary communion with the soul of Heine would overstrain her
nerves to such an extent that they might end by “snapping.”
But Valerie thought otherwise. In view of the alarmingly agitating
ideas that so often came into her mother’s head, she believed that
creative work brought her happiness, as she had spent so many years
without any serious occupation at all.
“My mother’s life is a strange one,” she wrote. “Her ideas are
occupied with the past, her efforts with the distant future. To her, the

292
present is an insubstantial, phantom-like thing, and her chief pride is that
nobody guesses her to be a poetess.”
She confided to her daughter as a great secret that her object was to
have her poems published long after her death for the benefit of those
unfortunate creatures who had been branded as criminals on account of
their political activities and liberal tendencies. The poems show strong
traces of the influence of Heine, who entirely dominated the Empress’s
mind at this time. She felt it most unjust that no monument had yet been
set up to him and wished to step into the breach herself, although she did
not quite know how. Her idea was to issue an appeal to the German
people, asking them to subscribe to a monument that she wanted to have
set up in Düsseldorf, Heine’s birthplace, and she questioned the actor
Lewinsky about how this could best be done.
The Emperor’s birthday was celebrated at Ischl by a large family
dinner party at which twenty-five members of the ruling House were
present, among them Franz Salvator’s uncle Ludwig Salvator, the
eccentric Archduke who lived in the Balearic Islands. He wrote learned
and charming books about his home, and always sent them to Sisi for
whom he had a great admiration. Both the Archduke and the Empress
were unconventional people, so they got on well together, although
Ludwig Salvator was regarded as a family joke. He was unmarried and
lived as he chose, caring nothing for appearances, and was always
dressed in a baggy coat, having only a single military tunic in his
possession, so that everybody felt most uncomfortable when he appeared
at Court. His yacht was a regular communist state in that absolute
equality prevailed on board. He shared the crew’s sleeping quarters and
meals, performed the same menial tasks, and dressed exactly as they did.
Apart from this, however, he was a highly cultured man, with scientific
interests that he used his property and rank to forward.
Franz Salvator sat next the Archduchess Valerie at this dinner, as the
Emperor was slowly coming around to the idea of their marriage. On
August 21, when Rudolf’s twenty-ninth birthday was being celebrated,
Franz Josef was just raising his glass at the end of a short speech
proposing his son’s health, when Sisi whispered to him that it was Franz
Salvator’s twenty-first birthday too. After a moment’s hesitation, the
Emperor raised his glass for the second time and added with a good-
natured glance, “Very well, then, to the other one’s health, too!”
Sisi now discussed things frankly with Franz Salvator.

293
 “You know,” she said, “Valerie is so terribly conscientious. I believe
she is really fond of you already, but you are both quite free, and so
young. You must meet often, but you cannot get to know each other too
well. You must not think, as so many people do, that I want to marry
Valerie off to you in order to keep her near me. Whenever she marries, it
is the same to me whether she goes to China or remains in Austria. In
any case she will be lost to me, but I have confidence in you and your
love and character, and if I were to die today, my mind would be
perfectly at rest if I were leaving Valerie to you …”
“If that man is false,” said Sisi to her daughter afterwards, “then I will
never trust anyone again!”
She was already making up her mind that she would not be like so
many other mothers-in-law. She knew from her own experience what
they could be like, and once, when a newly-married man was presented
to her, she asked him, to his amazement, “Is your mother-in-law
objectionable?”
“Oh no, not in the least,” was the reply, upon which Sisi said calmly,
“Just you wait! Mothers-in-law are always perfectly charming at first –
but after that …!”

Although Sisi’s mind was fully occupied with her daughter’s anticipated
betrothal, even now she could not resist her overwhelming love of travel.
She knew no peace, although she had already been to Herkulesbad,
Hamburg, and England that year, as well as to Bavaria. Franz Josef was
alone a great deal of the time and was really pained to find that his wife
now took hardly any interest in his political concerns, and still less in her
ceremonial duties as Empress.
Unable, as a rule, to settle down anywhere, she had found only one
spot for which she cared enough to want to build a villa there and that
was Corfu. During that winter, her Controller of the Household, Baron
Nopcsa, had already written to Baron Alexander von Warsberg, the great
authority on ancient and modern Greece, asking him to look around and
see whether he could not find a property for sale there. Sisi had been
reading Warsberg’s ‘Odysseiche Landschaften,’ a description of the
scenery used as the background to the stories of the Odyssey, and now
invited the author to accompany her to Corfu on the yacht Greif
[gryphon].

294
 He was none too pleased at this as he had a weak chest and realized
that those in attendance upon the Empress could not take much care of
themselves, although he had little idea of how exhausting it would really
be to travel with her. She had a thirst for knowledge and plunged into the
Homeric world with her usual ardor, and the Consul Warsberg showed
her the island as she had never seen it before, exactly as though she were
seeing it through the eyes of the poet himself.
“Corfu,” declared Sisi, “is an ideal place to stay in, with its climate,
its walks through the unending shade of the olive groves, its good roads
and its glorious sea air, and hovering over all this the splendid
moonlight.”
After a short excursion to Albania, they went to Leucadia and on past
Sappho’s headland to Ithaca, the island of Odysseus, where she followed
Warsberg where the hero of the Odyssey had trod. On the voyage she
had read the Consul’s books in which these idyllic scenes on Ithaca were
reconstructed with copious quotations from Homer. And now, on
October 30, she went down to the shore as Odysseus had done and
plucked a whole basketful of flowers to send to her dear ones at home.
Her escort went to the greatest effort to make her expedition on
classical soil enjoyable, and she found it so profitable that, thanks to
Warsberg, she said it was “quite an educational voyage.” She was
enthusiastic about the Consul, but he found it hard to keep up with her.
“The exhaustion exceeds anything I ever experienced on my travels in
the East,” he wrote in his diary, “and those too were not devoid of
exertion.”
The officers of the Greif observed this odd-looking scholar, as he
them, with an ironic eye as the Empress expected everybody to share in
her enthusiasm for Odysseus. It was no light matter to serve her, and the
joys of cruising around Ithaca in the worst of weather in an old tub like
the Greif involved serious responsibility. But Sisi did not care about this.
She was entirely absorbed in the Homeric world and followed
Warsberg’s every word with the greatest interest, and whenever he
mentioned any place of interest, the Greif had to visit it at once.
Sisi had originally meant to be away for only a fortnight, but by this
time she was so lost in her Hellenic dreamland that she did not want to
go home until her name day, November 19, and sent Franz Josef this
unwelcome news from Ithaca. “However,” he wrote to her from Vienna
on October 29, “if you consider it necessary for your health, I will say no

295
more, although since the spring of this year we have not spent more than
a few days together.”
Franz Josef was absolutely incapable of sharing his consort’s passion
for Greek antiquity. “I simply cannot imagine,” he wrote, “what you are
doing in Ithaca for so many days. However, the main thing is that you
should be well and contented, and this seems to be the case.”
Warsberg took Sisi to the village of Staoros, supposed to be the site of
the ancient Homeric city, and they ate their light lunch in a simple
cottage standing roughly on the same spot as Odysseus’s palace. Sisi was
delighted beyond words with the island. “I should like to be buried here
one day,” she said to the Landgravine Fürstenberg, and showed her a
poem in which she had embodied this idea.
Franz Josef was already growing impatient with Sisi’s long absence.
“My longing thoughts are always with you,” he wrote to her from
Gödöllö, “and I sorrowfully count the time – unfortunately such a long
one – between us and our next meeting … You are missed everywhere,
and naturally most of all by me.”
Bad weather awaited Sisi at Ithaca, with incessant wind and rain, and
it was impossible to make any excursions, so, on November 4, the yacht
returned to Corfu. The officers of the yacht blamed the learned Warsberg
with his “classical ecstasies” over the “bones of Ulysses” for the whole
thing. They had to be most careful, however, to avoid making jokey
allusions to the subject in front of the Empress, as she took the whole
thing in deadly earnest and Warsberg’s words of wisdom were absolute
gospel to her.
During her stay in Corfu, Sisi would go out sailing in a cutter all day,
and while Franz Josef was counting the days until her return, she was
regretting that her visit would so soon be over. The Emperor followed his
wife’s doings with skepticism from afar, and when at last she wrote that
she was preparing to sail for home, his reply was, “How happy I am that
tomorrow is your last expedition in the cutter and that your jaunts in
troubled Albania will at last be at an end, but I shall not be quite cheerful
again until you have made a safe voyage home and are with us once
more.”

Sisi arrived home punctually in time for her name day. She now felt quite
sure that her daughter’s betrothal to Franz Salvator would soon take
place, but when she developed with her husband her idea that an officer

296
who was persecuted and snubbed in the Austrian army could always turn
to the great and glorious German army – not, she insisted, the Prussian
one – Franz Josef exclaimed, “Well, that is a nice thing to say!” And
when she made this suggestion to Franz Salvator, he too raised
objections. “But if I were to enter the German army,” he said, “I might
find myself forced to fight against my own country.”
“Oh no!” replied Sisi. “Never again will it be possible to induce
Germans to draw their swords on Germans."
The Archduchess Valerie’s feelings were really harrowed by her
mother’s “vast, indeed crushing love” which she felt she did nothing to
deserve. She faithfully recorded in her diary one of her mother’s
passionate protestations of love, which may be taken as typical.
“I really love nobody but you,” said Sisi. "If you leave me, my life is
at an end. But one can only love like this once in a lifetime. All one’s
thoughts are of the beloved one, it is entirely one-sided – one requires
and expects nothing from the other person. And for that reason I cannot
conceive how anybody can love a number of people. Sophie took the
place of a mother toward my other children, but from the very first
moment I said to myself that things must be different with you. You had
to remain my own, my ownest, child, my treasure, over whom no one
other than myself must be allowed any right, and the whole of that
capacity for loving that had hitherto been imprisoned in my heart, I have
poured out upon you.”
With equally unrestrained passion she threw herself into her poetry
which now occupied all her thoughts. In memory of her recent visit to
Hamburg, she sent some beautiful presents to Ludwig von Emden, the
husband of Heine’s sister, which he responded to by sending her a
portrait of Heine and some manuscripts in his handwriting which
particularly delighted Sisi, as the Empress’s disappointment at the time
of her visit had obviously become known to the family.
Sisi’s poems were now legion. A niece of the Baroness Wallersee was
summoned to Gödöllö and commissioned to make a fair copy of them all
in absolute secrecy. In the evening she would read the poems to the
Empress, who corrected and improved them, after which they went off to
the state printing press, where a special staff of compositors and other
officials was entrusted with the task of printing them. The pages were
then locked up in an iron box with an inscription on the lid stating under
what circumstances it was ultimately to be opened.

297
 Every evening Valerie would read the ‘Odyssey’ to her mother, and
the Emperor’s anxieties about home and foreign politics fell into this
idyllic inner life like echoes from a distant world. Valerie described how
the prospect of war was anxiously discussed within the family circle –
which had been joined at Gödöllö that winter by the Duke Karl Theodor
– as the tension between Austria and Russia was becoming still more
acute.
“With compulsory military service and our present armaments,
nobody can really desire war,” said Franz Josef, “but if it really were to
come, Austria-Hungary would presumably be on the side of Germany,
Italy, and perhaps England too, while Russia would be the ally of France.
But even without France, the preponderance of power would be on the
side of Russia.”
“But what is the fundamental reason for it all?” asked the
Archduchess inquiringly.
“Oh, nobody knows,” replied Franz Josef. “There is no reason.”
On December 20, 1887, Baron Warsberg appeared at Gödöllö on a
visit to the Empress. He was tall and emaciated, with rather sharp
features, a red-gold moustache and hair turning gray, but his eyes were
very clever and piercing. Sisi revered him as “a superior intelligence,”
and, to quote Warsberg’s own words, overwhelmed him with favors. She
was “more than gracious, she was positively familiar,” he said. “Perhaps
nobody has ever stood in such a close relationship to her,” he wrote in
his diary, “as she has accorded me in her presence.” This was an illusion
that he shared with many of those who came in close contact with the
Empress.
On December 24, Sisi celebrated her fiftieth birthday, not in a very
happy frame of mind. She was oppressed by the thought that half a
century had now passed by since her birth – not that age had impaired
her beauty, as was alleged by those who did not know her well, but
because she had passed that period of her life in a state of inward
discontent, nervousness and dreariness.
Sisi’s frequent absences and lack of interest in the future of the
Empire or her Court duties hurt the Emperor, so it is quite
understandable that he should have been increasingly charmed and
amused by such a simple, sensible, normal woman as Katharina Schratt,
with her dry humor and joie de vivre, and her unselfish and disinterested
nature, who talked to him quite freely, saying whatever came into her

298
head. Sisi’s conscience was not altogether easy at having left her
husband alone so often, so she encouraged this friendship, seeing no
more in it than a friendly camaraderie that helped to distract the
Emperor’s mind from cares of government when she herself was away.
She commissioned the painter Angeli to paint a portrait of the actress,
and pointedly went to call upon Frau Schratt during her visit to
Wolfgangsee in July 1886, when the gossips had begun to talk about the
Emperor’s infatuation.
The Crown Prince Rudolf and his wife were present at the birthday
celebrations, and Duke Karl Theodor summed up the uncomfortable
atmosphere that seemed to pervade his personality as follows.
“He is undoubtedly a remarkable personality, but not as remarkable as
he himself imagines. He has rather too little heart. Rudolf’s good
qualities have been stifled by his entourage and he has been turned into
what is often a positively unsympathetic, and indeed sinister, person.”
But the Empress had a return of her sciatica on her birthday and
began to long for the south, as she always did when the winter arrived.
Valerie was greatly perturbed and had recourse to a discreet confidante,
the Mother Superior of the Convent of the Sacré-Coeur in Vienna, Mère
Mayer, to whom she had also confided her love for Franz Salvator. She
poured out her heart to her, bewailing her mother’s state of mind and the
strong influence still exerted over her by earlier circumstances – the way,
for instance, in which the shadow of the Archduchess Sophie continued
to darken the relationship between the Emperor and Empress.
“Ah!” said Mère Mayer, “if only the Empress knew how she is loved
and adored! If only she were willing, if only she would let herself be
seen a little more, she would have all hearts at her feet. Under more
favorable circumstances, Her Majesty might have been a Maria Theresa.
She possesses all the necessary qualities. But one question: is the
Empress pious?”
“Oh yes, she is pious, but in her own way. She is not a good
churchwoman.”
“Try to bring influence to bear on your mother, Your Imperial
Highness, to submit to the discipline of the Church, and also to become
reconciled with her relationships at home from which she has often been
estranged since the unhappy events of the year 1886.”
“That is very difficult, Reverend Mother. There is nothing more
hopeless than to induce Mamma to change an opinion once she has

299
formed it for what she considers sound reasons.”
Sisi had noticed that her husband was a little put out at her long
absence during the year 1887, so in spite of her longing for the south, she
decided to stay at home until the time came around for her usual holiday
in March, and to take part in the carnival celebrations in both Vienna and
Budapest for her husband’s sake, in spite of her sciatica.
On January 18, she talked to people for four hours on end at the Court
ball in Vienna, and in spite of the many political misunderstandings
between Austria and Hungary, was present at a similar function in
Budapest. A few days later, on February 23, news arrived that the
cheerful and talented young Prince Ludwig of Baden, whom she had
known well at Kissingen, had died of inflammation of the lungs.
“It looks as though the curse on the House of Baden is being
fulfilled,” she said, “which says that it will die out because it came into
power through the crime against Kaspar Hauser. We are as nothing in the
hand of God! Jehovah is the greatest of philosophers. We cannot
understand His decrees but we must bow before Him.”

In March the Empress started out on her usual spring holiday, first
paying a visit to England for the instruction of the Archduchess Valerie.
Sárolta Majláth was in attendance on her as the Landgravine Therese
Fürstenberg had had to resign her position owing to increasing deafness.
Sisi stayed at Claridge’s Hotel, and at once began racing from one
museum to another and seeing all the sights, including making another
visit to Madame Tussaud’s where their fingers itched to destroy the
exasperating caricatures of Franz Josef and Sisi herself. She and Valerie
made frequent expeditions to the shopping area of the great city, which
amused Sisi enormously because she knew nobody there. In one shop, a
young married couple looked them up and down, and the wife remarked
to her husband, “Most extraordinary people, those!”
During her visit to England, the Empress heard that Count Andrássy
was extremely ill and that his complaint was incurable. She still regarded
him as her own best friend and that of her House, and sent him her
warmest wishes for his recovery, together with a watch which, although
not of great value, was a token of kindly remembrance.
Andrássy was deeply touched.
“You understand,” he wrote to Ida Ferenczy, “you, who know Her
Majesty even better than I do and are well aware that she never does

300
anything for the sake of appearances or out of caprice, that everything
she says or does is entirely truthful – you will understand how happy and
proud Her Majesty’s present and letter make me … This watch is all the
more precious to me because I feel, as I look at it, that this is no Court
favor, no formal granting of an honor, but an affectionate remembrance
sent to me by a person who, even if she were not our Queen, would be
the most interesting being I have ever seen, whether in mind, exterior or
character. I only wish most ardently that everybody were able to know
and love her as we do.”
Ida Ferenczy hastened to show this letter to the Empress, who had
meanwhile returned to Munich from England, and there paid a visit to
the spiritualist Countess Irene Paumgartten, whose tendencies had
become a subject of diplomatic correspondence.
The Prussian Ambassador at the Court of Munich reported these
séances to Bismarck as he considered that Sisi’s belief in
communications from the spirit world, conveyed to her by the Countess
by means of automatic writing, might under certain circumstances
assume considerable importance.
But the Ambassador exaggerated their significance. It is true that Sisi
frequently visited her old friend, but she was amused at her assumption
that when she was writing automatically in a state of trance, her hand
was guided by spirits. Sisi could not quite make out whether it was all
humbug or whether there was something in it after all. But she saw at
least that the Countess was acting in perfectly good faith and never
abused this faculty for her own ends. Sometimes she was doubtful,
sometimes she believed in it all, and sometimes she would submit the
whole thing to ridicule.
From Munich, Sisi went to Lainz, to the Villa Hermes, where she was
met with a warm, joyous welcome from Franz Josef, but a cool and
reserved reception from the Crown Prince, which quite depressed her.
“So this is what they call coming home!” she said bitterly. “But one is
only at home where Nature is lovely and men are happy.”
During the lengthy festivities connected with the unveiling of the
monument to Maria Theresa on May 13, 1888, she brooded over
Rudolf’s possible treatment of Valerie in days to come and made up her
mind to talk it over with him.
“Never be nasty to Valerie,” she said to him during the great Court
banquet, “as it will bring you bad luck yourself.” Sisi knew what a deep

301
effect everything mystical and inexplicable produced upon Rudolf’s
impressionable, superstitious soul, and was determined to influence him
through this aspect of his character. “I am a Sunday’s child,” she said,
“so I am in communion with the other world and can bring good or bad
luck to others. And so I remind you of May 13.”
“I shan’t do Valerie any harm, Mamma,” he replied, but Sisi looked
him fully in the eye and was struck by his restless, wavering glance, the
dark shadows under his eyes and the pallor of his face.
“Are you ill?” she asked.
“No,” was the reply, “only tired and nervous.”
During June, when Sisi and her daughter were living in very close
companionship, they would philosophize during their country picnics.
Sisi believed more in a God of vengeance and Valerie more in a God of
love. The Empress had such a poor opinion of humanity that her
daughter was often greatly depressed.
“What I should most like,” said Sisi, “would be to retire to Corfu
altogether since I have to give you up. I must accustom myself to this
bitter medicine in good time.”
At the end of July, after a visit of a few weeks to Gastein, they moved
to Ischl, where they were joined by Franz Josef. The actress Frau Schratt
was also spending the summer there, and now made frequent visits to the
Imperial Villa and went for walks with the Emperor and Empress.
On August 4, Valerie accompanied them and found her simple and
sympathetic, but she had an uncomfortable feeling about her as people
were talking and refused to believe that the Emperor’s attitude in the
matter was what it really was. For this reason it pained Valerie that Sisi
had encouraged the friendship so much. The Empress had always been
fond of associating with theatrical people, and now that she spent so
much time reading, she would have her favorite poetry and plays read to
her by actors and elocution masters such as Emmerich Robert and
Alexander Strakosch. From Heine, whose ‘Belsazer’ and ‘Wallfahrt nach
Kevlaar’ always moved her to tears, she had gone on to Byron and
Shakespeare, and was forever reading, translating and declaiming.
On August 15, the King and Crown Prince of Portugal arrived at
Ischl, apparently in search of a Crown Princess. They naturally did not
know how far Valerie’s word was already pledged and Sisi listened with
amusement when the Crown Prince of Portugal asked Valerie about her

302
poems, and told her how he and his father translated Shakespeare
together.

When the guests from abroad had gone, Sisi suddenly announced one
day that she was going to the Langbathseen quite alone. “I am going
entirely into retreat for a few days,” she said, “and am taking nobody
with me as I do not wish to talk.”
Her maid-of-honor Sárolta Majláth was very much alarmed.
“Provided only that she comes back contented and calmer,” she wrote to
Ida Ferenczy. “But the more she broods, the unhappier she feels. God
grant that she find rest for her soul in something, but I do not believe
either Heine or Byron is capable of giving it to her. It is really sad.”
On her return, Sisi went to Bayreuth for the festival performances of
Wagner’s operas. The Empress was not really musical, but she was so
deeply affected by ‘Parsifal’ that she wished it would never come to an
end. Between the acts she had Frau Cosima Wagner summoned to her
box. Tall and distinguished, uncommonly attractive, with obvious traces
of past beauty and an impressively calm personality, she entered the
Empress’s box and assured Her Majesty that, but for Ludwig II, all this
music, which to her at least appeared to be the realization of all that is
most desirable here below, would never have been created. With tears in
her eyes she spoke of her husband and of Liszt, her father.
“I now live for the past alone, in retirement with my children," she
said. “Music is my only happiness.”
“You are quite right,” replied Sisi. “I, too, never go to the theater,
where people stare at me, and I prefer not to be among people at all.”
“I understand that so well,” replied Frau Cosima, “and always
understood King Ludwig, because in our age something so strange, so
indefinably coarse has come over mankind that anyone with delicate
sensibilities and lofty aspirations can hardly live among them.”
Sisi was so delighted that she expressed a wish to see the conductor
Mottl, and Van Dyck and Reichmann, who were taking the parts of
Parsifal and Amfortas, but their banal appearance rather destroyed her
illusions. “I would like to hear the whole thing all over again at once,”
she said, to which Reichmann’s answer was, “I would be there at once.”
From Bayreuth, she went on to Kreuth, where her mother’s eightieth
birthday was being celebrated, and then to Ischl where, on September 10,
the Duke of Oldenburg appeared with his wife, a Baroness not of royal

303
birth who was cold-shouldered in royal circles. Such things always
aroused Sisi’s contrary spirit and she purposely received the Duke and
his wife with particular cordiality and friendliness.

Already, however, she was dreaming of foreign travel again. Warsberg

had taken the Villa Braila at Gasturi, Corfu, for her and she rejoiced at
the thought of visiting her beloved island once more. At the beginning of
October, she informed the Emperor of her intention of going there.
“Dear, beloved soul,” he replied sadly, “I am in very low spirits at the
thought of your departure for the distant south and your long absence,
especially after our recent meeting which was so cozy and congenial,
although unfortunately so short and such a rush. You were particularly
gracious, charming and sweet, too, for which I again send my very best
thanks … Think often of your boundlessly loving, sad and lonely little
one.”
But soon the world at large began to say spiteful things about the
Empress’s mania for travel. The newspapers took up the theme and soon
the English newspapers reported that Sisi was contemplating a voyage to
America and the West Indies, or even around the world.
For the present, however, she started out from Miramar for
Missolonghi, where Byron, whose works she read constantly on the
voyage, had died in the cause of Greek freedom. Her voyage was spoiled
by terrific wind and rain, but in spite of this, her boat anchored off the
island of Santa Maura and she climbed the rock known as “Sappho’s
leap” in a rain storm.
On returning to her beloved Corfu, she resumed her sailing
expeditions in the cutter Lizzy, and also began to study both ancient and
modern Greek with Professor Romanos of Corfu, who had been
recommended to her by Warsberg. At first she studied alone, walking up
and down the garden or writing exercises on the terrace with its
magnificent view of the sea and the Albanian mountains. Yet her whole
way of living was a source of uneasiness for Countess Festetics, and she
poured out her doubts to Ida Ferenczy who had not accompanied the
Empress.
“What I see and hear in this place, dear Ida,” she wrote, “weighs upon
my mind. Her Majesty is always sweet when we are together, and talks
as she used to do in the old days. But she is no longer her old self – a
shadow has fallen upon her spirit. I can find no other words to express

304
my meaning, because when a person represses and denies all fine and
noble feeling out of indolence or for the sake amusement, one can only
ascribe it to bitterness or cynicism. Believe me, my heart weeps tears of
blood. And then she does things that make not only one’s heart, but one’s
understanding, stand still. Yesterday morning the weather was bad from
the first, yet she insisted on going out sailing. By nine o’clock it had
started to pour with rain, and the deluge, accompanied by thunder, lasted
until three o’clock in the afternoon. And all that time she went sailing
around and around, sitting on deck holding an umbrella over herself and
getting drenched through. Then she landed somewhere or another, sent
for her carriage, and wanted to spend the night in some strange villa. So
now you can imagine the level to which things have reached. Thank God
the doctor accompanies her everywhere.”
Wherever Sisi went, people were struck by her characteristically light
tread, which made her seem to float along the ground. Poetic spirits
expressed their admiration by comparing her gait to that of a goddess
advancing to victory, although to others her rapid pace caused her to be
known as “the railway.” This was not intended sarcastically, as in the
eyes of the Greek peasantry of Corfu, a railway stood for all that was
most grand.
Sisi was treated with all possible consideration and special roads were
planned and entirely reconstructed for the convenience of some of her
drives around the island. She was most appreciative of this, but declined
to receive any visitors in Corfu on the ground that she had gone there for
the express purpose of living in absolute peace. When King George of
Greece announced his intention of visiting her, she merely sent word that
she would be away for the next few days. Shortly afterwards she heard
that the King intended to arrive the following week, but she again
informed him that she expected to leave Corfu for a few days, and after
that there was no more talk of the royal visit.

But now sad news arrived from Munich. The Empress’s father had
suffered a slight stroke during the summer, and on November 10 he had
another, and far more serious, one. The news reached the Empress on the
twelfth and she wanted to leave for home at once. She telegraphed her
intention to Franz Josef, but he advised her not to come, as he wished to
avoid the effect that such a sad event was sure to have upon his wife's
spirits, already so sorely tried.

305
 In any case, she would not have arrived in time, as on November 15
this eccentric prince died at half-past three in the morning. Toward the
end of his life he had become more and more isolated as his friends
gradually died, although he spent his last days in cheerful acceptance of
his deprivations.
The news was announced to Sisi in an affectionate telegram that she
received from the Emperor during the afternoon of the fifteenth.
“Deepest and most loving sympathy with you on Papa’s death.” The
Empress was deeply affected and reproached herself for having troubled
so little about her father while he was still alive, although it had seldom
been possible to see him during her visits home.
Warsberg tried to distract the Empress's thoughts from her grief by
discussing with her the plans for her projected villa on Corfu where the
climate was proving beneficial to her sciatica.
“I mean to spend my name day by the sea,” she wrote to the
Archduchess Valerie on November 16. “I intend to be at Miramar by the
first so as to meet Póka [Sisi’s nickname for the Emperor] there, of
which I shall be very glad. It will surely get warmer now. I feel that I
suffer more from the cold as time goes on … The day before yesterday I
walked on and on through olive groves and along the sea-shore as far as
the Villa Capodistria, two hours’ walk away. It stands in a very wild spot,
like an enchanted fairy castle, but all crumbling away among great
orange, lemon and mandarin trees that have grown into a perfect tangle
in the neglected garden. Loveliest of all were the camellia trees. It would
be hard to find such fine ones on Madeira … I have seen much that is
beautiful before, but there is nothing lovelier on earth than Scheria
[Homa’s name for Corfu]. Under a starry sky it is even lovelier.
Yesterday evening this world of wonders glittered before me and my
heart can hardly contain itself at the sight of so much eternal glory.”
With a heavy heart, Sisi at last tore herself away from her beloved
island and the only thing that gave her any pleasure was the meeting with
her husband, who came to meet her at Miramar. There she discussed with
him her intention of building herself a villa in Corfu, and Franz Josef,
who had never denied his wife a single thing, consented, although not
altogether gladly as the building of a house in a foreign land so far away
meant that she wished to live at a distance from him and her home, and
he could hardly be happy about that.

306
 Sisi now sent for Warsberg and formally commissioned him to build
her villa, combining in him the functions of architect, gardener and
everything else. Although skeptical as a general rule, the Consul was
delighted by this. “The Empress is enchantingly kind,” he noted in his
diary. “I cannot resist the lady. And I really like the task as it is an artistic
one.” But Warsberg noticed Franz Josef’s reserve and felt that something
was not quite right there. “This favor on the part of the Empress,” he
remarked, “really does me harm in Vienna.” And, as a matter of fact,
people there held him responsible for having instilled this “Greek mania”
in Sisi’s mind and for having encouraged her tendency to forget her
family, her husband and her position as Empress. Nor did Warsberg quite
know how he was to rise to the occasion, as his health was none too good
and he had not sought these extra responsibilities.

December 2 was the fortieth anniversary of Franz Josef’s accession to

the throne and he went to Miramar not only to see his wife but to escape
from any celebrations of this occasion. The Emperor and Empress had a
long and intimate conversation in which they poured out their hearts to
each other, as Valerie had joined them and Sisi was worrying more than
ever about her future.
“My advice to you, Valerie,” she said to her one day, “is to confide in
Papa once and for all. For my part, of course, I give my consent to your
betrothal, although I shall then be left utterly alone and everything will
be changed. The best time to choose would be Christmas Eve.”
At this moment Franz Josef came into the room.
“Have you been crying,” he said to his daughter, “at the terrible
surprise of finding that Mamma has had a blue anchor tattooed on her
shoulder?”
“Oh, no,” said Sisi, "it is I who have been crying at quite a different
surprise.”
“Why, what is that?”
"She wants to tell Franz that he is the husband of her choice.”
“Why, what is the meaning of this?” asked Franz Josef in his curt
way, upon which Valerie said hesitatingly, “Why, I should like to be
betrothed.”
Sisi laughed but the Emperor nodded as though he had long regarded
the matter as settled, and then said in a business-like tone, “Now we
must make arrangements for the wedding.”

307
 Sisi made a show of indignation at the Emperor’s matter of fact way
of taking the news, but it was only a pretense.
He walked across to the window and looked out in order to hide his
feelings.
Shortly after this, the Emperor and Empress went back to
Schönbrunn. Sisi was still full of the beauty of her beloved Greece,
which, she told her daughter over and over again, she regarded as her
future home. She had brought a Greek man with her from Corfu, the
lawyer Dr. Thermojannis with whom she now took a daily walk in the
garden of Schönbrunn, eagerly studying Greek, at which Franz Josef and
Valerie were vastly amused, as the Greek man was a comical sight and
quite out of place among the courtiers.
Valerie still felt afraid to tell Rudolf her secret. The Crown Prince was
so strangely altered and had become so quiet, taciturn and reserved that
the Landgravine Fürstenberg, who had not seen him for a long time, said
that she would hardly have taken him to be the same person.
Sisi invited him and his wife to dinner on December 16, 1888, adding
that she wanted to tell him a secret. At first he seemed excited and
nervous, but not un-friendly, so “for the first time in her life," she said,
“Valerie ventured to throw her arms around him and tell him everything.
Rudolf was touched by this confession of love, which had been so long
restrained by shyness and nervousness, and embraced and kissed his
sister with warm, brotherly affection.”
“Please,” said Sisi, “be good to Valerie and her husband if ever they
are dependent upon you.”
“I promise and swear it,” replied Rudolf simply and cordially,
whereupon Sisi hurried up to him and made the sign of the cross on his
forehead.
“God will bless you for it,” she said, “and it will bring you happiness.
You are my son and I love you so.”
Rudolf kissed her hand with deep feeling and then Valerie rushed up
to them, gathered them both in her arms, and almost without thinking
what she was saying, declared, “This is how we should always be.”
This affectionate evening made Sisi very happy and her fears were
now set at rest.
“Yes,” she said to her daughter, “I am quite ready to trust to Franz’s
love. But all the same, he is a robber, and in taking you away, he is
depriving me of the only real joy of my whole married life.”

308
 And so Christmas Eve, 1888, came around, and with it Sisi’s birthday.
Rudolf and his wife were among the guests, and the Crown Prince
presented his mother with Hugo Wittmann’s edition of Heine’s letters, at
which Franz Josef cast an ironic glance, but made no comment.
When the Crown Prince and Princess had gone off to their own
Christmas tree, Franz Josef sent for the Archduke Franz Salvator and the
formal betrothal took place. Sisi embraced the young fiancé with sisterly
tenderness, saying: “I am so fond of you. I am giving you my all. Make
my Valerie happy!” Then Valerie hugged her and begged her to forgive
her for all the times she had offended her.
“I only wish,” said Sisi, “that were more to forgive. Then it would not
be so hard for me to give you away.”
That evening Sisi had laid aside her mourning for her father and was
looking dazzlingly young and lovely in her pale-colored dress.
Franz Josef addressed some kindly words to his future son-in-law,
looked at the young couple happily, and said, hiding his tears, “Valerie
looks as jolly as can be.”
The Countess Tornis, who had been Valerie’s governess for many
years, now came in to offer her good wishes and Sisi greeted her by
saying mischievously, “Ah, we two are on the shelf now.”
On December 26, Sisi accompanied the newly betrothed couple to
Munich to present them to her mother whom she had not seen since her
father’s death. On New Year’s Day, she received an affectionate and
feeling letter from her husband.
“My best wishes to all, but above all to you, my beloved angel. I
hope, too, that all your wishes that are practicable and not too
inconvenient to myself may be fulfilled, and I beg you always to show
me the same love, consideration and goodness. The blessed feeling, too,
that your love increases with the passing years, instead of growing
colder, causes me the warmest gratitude and makes me infinitely happy. I
received the enclosed telegram yesterday from our friend [die
Freundin].”
Franz Josef added this reference to Frau Schratt, whom he always
called “die Freundin” in writing to Sisi, because he wanted to have no
secrets from his wife. She must know everything as there was nothing to
hide from her. He hoped that Sisi’s enthusiasm for Greece and her mania
for travel might pass, as so many of her crazes had done before, so that
in the end she might be reclaimed by home, family and the Empire.

309
310
Chapter 23

The Death of the Crown Prince (1888-1890)

Sisi spent New Year’s Day, 1889, at her old home, and wrote to her
mother from Munich on her way back as follows.
“Well, we leave here with heavy hearts, myself especially, as Valerie
is in love and consequently stupid. I so much enjoyed this lovely quiet
time with you, dear Mimi. I was so happy at being able to spend so much
time with you that today I feel very sorry for myself.”
On arriving in Vienna, the Empress had to receive belated New
Year’s wishes, among others from Franz Salvator’s mother.
Sisi was very nice to her, addressed her with the intimate form of
“you,” and closed the conversation with the words, “All I want to say is
this: it is always best for mothers-in-law not to interfere with a young
married couple, so I mean never to visit them unless I have to.”
And the Archduchess replied amiably, “Oh yes, one must be a
mother, not a mother-in-law.”
The Imperial family were all on the best of terms, and the future
appeared to be extremely rosy. But a terrible blow was in store for the
unsuspecting Emperor and Empress.
The Crown Prince was very different in reality from the way he had
recently given the impression of being. The Empress had had little
opportunity to observe him, as, during the last two years, she had been
mostly absent from Vienna, and even when at home, had been far too
wrapped up in her daughter Valerie. The Emperor, overwhelmed with the
weight of government, had few really intimate friends at Court, not least
because he avoided intimacy. The Crown Prince managed to keep his
private life a secret even from the closest members of his entourage, and
the few who had any knowledge of it were either unwilling to lose the
future Emperor’s favor or found it to their advantage that Franz Josef
should not be warned in time of the terrible danger that threatened.
The only people who really knew anything about the Crown Prince
Rudolf’s secret affairs were in a menial position – such as his coachman
Bratfisch and his valet Loschek – but the principal members of his
household knew absolutely nothing about them.
During the last two years, this clever, elegant and talented Prince,
who really had such an excellent disposition, had become a mere shadow

311
of himself. He had now quite recovered from his illness of 1886 but his
low spirits of that time had made him grasp at anything that would
stimulate him and stifle his lurking dread of the future. He drank more
than was good for him and gave himself over to pleasure without
restraint, as though eager to get the most out of his last years. He carried
on affairs with women very much beneath him socially – but with
society ladies as well – and then his sense of honor would cause him
bitter self-reproach and he would ask himself whether all these things
that he was driven to do by some obscure and uncontrollable impulse
were really compatible with his honor as an officer and the Emperor’s
son.
His character was essentially noble, high-minded and chivalrous. His
unbridled dissipation during his last two years was the result of anxiety
and should therefore be regarded as due to a disease and nothing else. At
times he was overcome with disgust at his life and said to himself that he
could only expiate it by death. In his determination to hide his way of
living from his kind and irreproachable parents, he naturally could not
admit to the large sums of money he was spending, so he found an
unsuspecting Jewish banker who secretly lent him large amounts in the
expectation of reaping his reward by being awarded railway contracts in
the East.
But when he played with thoughts of death, he was faced with the
unanswerable question of what comes afterwards. He was terror-stricken
and felt that he could not dare to take such a step without somebody to
help him on his passage into the next world. He appealed to a woman
who was in other respects quite unworthy of him and proposed that she
should accompany him to the Husarentempel, a summerhouse on a hill
near Mödling, and die with him there. But she had no intention of doing
any such thing, and hurrying to the Chief of Police, confessed everything
and begged him for his advice in such a terrible quandary. And so the
plan failed. But it seems that Franz Josef was not informed about the
matter, although unmistakable proof of it exists in the shape of a letter.
Rudolf now looked around for another companion in death. About
this time the daughter of the same Baroness Vetsera who had tried to
enmesh him in her plans years before, came into his life. She had grown
into a young, beautiful, romantic girl of seventeen, and long before
meeting the Crown Prince, she had always heard him spoken of at home
in the most glowing terms. No wonder, then, that the heir to the throne

312
appeared to this young girl’s eyes as an idealized figure and kindled the
flame of love in her heart the very first time she met him.
In Rudolf’s current frame of mind, he could not resist the magic spell
of her youthful charm and passion. The two soon became lovers, and in
his anxiety to conceal this intrigue, as he had done with many others, he
made use of the Empress’s niece, the Countess Larisch-Wallersee, as a
cover for the girl’s visits. The part played by the Countess, who had
received much kindness from the Empress, was indeed highly
reprehensible.
But the young girl who was now in love with him was of a very
different type from the other woman to whom the Crown Prince had
proposed a suicide pact. Not until she had given herself to him did she
hear all kinds of terrible reports. Very much in love and knowing herself
to be involved in an intrigue with the heir to the Imperial throne who was
a married man, and dreading the consequences of this, she too fell into
an overwrought state of mind that she was too young to deal with. It
seems probable that at this moment Rudolf made the same proposal to
her as he had done to his previous lover, and she did not draw back. She
was genuinely in love with him, and resolved, if necessary, to expiate her
love with her life.
On January 29, 1889, Franz Josef and Sisi gave a family dinner party
from which Rudolf had excused himself on the ground that he was
unwell. On the thirty-first, the Emperor and Empress were starting out
for Buda, their preparations already made. The Crown Prince had
arranged for a day’s shooting at Mayerling early in the morning of the
thirtieth, but when his valet Loschek went to call him, there was no
answer. Count Hoyos joined Loschek and they knocked and knocked on
his door.
No movement was to be heard.
They tried to force the door but it would not give way. At last,
Loschek smashed in a panel with an axe and now a terrible sight was
dimly visible in the half-dark, the shutters being closed. The Crown
Prince was sitting motionless by the side of the bed, leaning forward and
bleeding from the mouth. A glass and a mirror stood in front of him on
his bedside table. Without examining things more closely, the servant
jumped to the conclusion that the Crown Prince had drunk poison from
the glass as he knew strychnine causes bleeding. On the bed beside the

313
Prince Rudolf lay the dead body of a young girl, the Baroness Mary
Vetsera. She was as pale as death, ice-cold and already quite rigid.
In his mortal alarm, Hoyos did not look closer but rushed to the train
station as fast as he could and took a special train to Vienna.
On arriving there, he hurried to the Emperor’s Adjutant General,
Count Paar, and requested him to break the appalling news to Franz
Josef.
"I cannot possibly. Her Majesty is the only person who can tell His
Majesty such a thing,” declared the Count, and at once sent for Baron
Nopcsa, Controller of the Empress’s Household. In the utmost distress,
Nopcsa then rushed to Ida Ferenczy and asked how Her Majesty should
be told the news.
Sisi happened to be having her Greek lesson and her master was
reading her passages from Homer. But suddenly Ida Ferenczy appeared
at the door, white-lipped, and announced that Baron Nopcsa had
something urgent to tell Her Majesty.
Impatient at the interruption, Sisi replied, “Well, he must wait and
come back again later.”
But her reader, with unusual agitation, insisted that Nopcsa must be
received at once and was at last compelled to add softly, “He has bad
news, grave news from His Imperial Highness the Crown Prince.”
Sisi motioned her Greek tutor to withdraw while Ida Ferenczy pushed
Baron Nopcsa into the room, whereupon he performed his painful duty
with the utmost delicacy.
When Ida entered the room a few moments later, she found Sisi
sobbing and in floods of tears. At this terrible moment a quick, light step
was heard outside. It was Franz Josef.
“Not yet! Do not come in,” cried Sisi.
Ida Ferenczy rushed to the door.
“I implore Your Majesty most earnestly to wait a moment longer.”
Franz Josef stood outside with Nopcsa, who was controlling himself
with an effort. Meanwhile Sisi dried her tears.
“Is anything noticeable?” she asked. “No? Very well, then, show him
in, and may God help me.”
Franz Josef entered with his elastic tread and God alone knows how
the Empress told her husband the dreadful news. Franz Josef left the
room with a drooping head, a broken man.
“Come with me, Baron Nopcsa,” he said.

314
 Meanwhile, Sisi went downstairs to Ida Ferenczy’s rooms. It was just
time for the visit of Frau Katharina Schratt, who had often come to see
Their Majesties lately, and always went straight to Ida, the Empress’s
most intimate and confidential attendant, as though to demonstrate that
nothing secret or suspect was afoot. That day the young actress’s
composure and sincerity were particularly welcome to Sisi. She felt that,
at such a moment, the Emperor stood more than ever in need of
wholehearted consolation from some outside person such as a grievously
stricken mother, like herself, could hardly give.
The Empress herself accompanied Frau Schratt to her husband. Then
her first thought was for her daughter Valerie. To talk with her, although
she knew nothing as yet, was the only thing that might perhaps to some
extent assuage her own despair.
Valerie was not in her apartments, so Sisi sent for her. She came
rushing in, merry and unsuspecting, and found her mother weeping in
her bedroom.
“Rudolf is very, very ill,” sobbed Sisi. “There is no hope.”
Valerie threw her arms around her and sat on her knee.
“It will drain the blood from your cheek with the horror of it. The
worst has happened …”
“Has he killed himself?”
Sisi started. “Why do you think that? No, no. It seems probable, even
certain, that the girl poisoned him.”
Steps were now heard outside.
“There is Papa,” said Sisi. “I entreat you to be as calm as I am.”
At this moment Franz Josef entered the room. Both women threw
their arms round his neck and the three clung together in a close
embrace. The two women tried to be calm in order to give him strength,
but now they saw that, in the depths of his own sorrow, it was his heroic
example that was sustaining them.
“Send for Stéphanie,” said the Emperor.
The Crown Princess came upstairs, sobbing. Sisi went to meet her
kindly and lovingly, in an almost motherly way, without the least
bitterness. Then Valerie’s fiancé hurried in too, saying, “At such a
moment as this, one must surrender oneself entirely to the will of God.”
But Sisi answered, “The great Jehovah is terrible when he goes forth
like a destroying storm,” the same words as she had uttered once before
when Ludwig II of Bavaria had met his death.

315
 Meanwhile, Ida Ferenczy had returned to her apartments. She opened
her door and there was the old Baroness Vetsera sitting on a chair,
waiting.
Ida Ferenczy addressed her sharply.
“What do you want here, Baroness?” she said. “I cannot see you now.
Kindly go away.”
But the Baroness only repeated persistently, “I must speak to Her
Majesty the Empress.”
“But, Baroness, that is impossible.”
“I must, I must. I have lost my child and she alone can restore her to
me.”
The Baroness had as yet no idea of the true state of affairs. Even
before the catastrophe, she had been to the Chief of Police and Count
Taaffe, the Chief Minister, in search of her daughter, and since the
Crown Prince was involved, their advice had been, “Go to Her Majesty,
she alone is in the position to do something.”
Ida Ferenczy returned to Sisi.
“Does she know everything yet?” asked the Empress.
“No.”
“Poor woman! Very well, I will go to her.”
But Ida replied anxiously, “Will Your Majesty not wait a moment? I
will get Nopcsa to speak to her first.”
Baron Nopcsa accepted the mission but did not tell her everything.
The Baroness thereupon persisted in her request.
“Very well, then, fetch Her Majesty,” decided Nopcsa.
Sisi entered, Nopcsa withdrew, and Ida Ferenczy stayed in the next
room with the door open where she could see everything and hear a great
deal, and was on the spot in case Her Majesty had any instructions to
give her.
Full of majesty, the Empress stood before the agitated woman who
was demanding her child and saying that the Crown Prince must have
taken her away with him.
In a gentle voice, the Empress said, “Collect all your courage,
Baroness. Your daughter is dead.”
Upon which the Baroness cried out in the wildest of grief, “My child!
My dear, beautiful child!”
“But do you know,” continued Sisi in a firmer voice, “that my Rudolf
is dead, too?”

316
 The Baroness reeled, fell to the ground before the Empress, and clung
to her knees.
“My unhappy child!” she cried. “What has she done? Can this be her
doing?”
So her mother had interpreted the situation in the same way, and
believed, as the Emperor and Empress did for a long time, that her
daughter had first poisoned the Crown Prince and then herself.
After a silence, Sisi left the Baroness, saying as she went,
“Remember, Rudolf died of a heart attack!”
Meanwhile, a commission had arrived in Mayerling, headed by the
Court physician, Hofrat von Widerhofer. He was the first to enter the
room since Hoyos and the valet Loschek had been there, and now he
came in with them and had the closed shutters thrown open. There he
saw the young girl in all her exquisite beauty, lying on the bed with her
hair loose about her shoulders, but as white as death and with a rose in
her folded hands. The Crown Prince was still in a half-sitting position,
but on the ground lay a revolver that had fallen from his hand. Now at
last they looked at him in full daylight. There was no poison in the glass
on the night table, only brandy.
The doctor raised the tall, cold body and found the skull perforated,
the bullet having entered at one temple and gone out through the other,
while the girl was wounded in the same place. Both bullets were found in
the room.

Franz Josef spent Thursday night in a state of painful agitation, waiting

for the result of the commission’s examination. Neither he nor Sisi was
yet sure whether the Crown Prince had killed himself. Others were told
that it was a heart attack. The people of Vienna stood in their thousands
on the Burgplatz in deep mourning. Calm, resigned and heroic, Franz
Josef waited for more detailed information. Sisi had to promise him that
she would not be there to receive Rudolf’s body which was to be brought
to the Hofburg by night. But as she and Valerie lay awake, they heard the
hollow roll of drums and the guard turning out as the sad procession
entered the courtyard of the palace at two o’clock in the morning.
Early next day the Emperor sent for Widerhofer. He was still
absolutely sure that the girl had poisoned his son. All he expected from
the doctor was confirmation of this and the exact details.
“Tell me everything frankly. I want to know all the details.”

317
 Unaware of the Emperor’s mistaken notion, Widerhofer started his
terrible report, as a doctor would, with the consoling words, “I can assure
Your Majesty that His Imperial Highness the Crown Prince did not suffer
for a moment. The bullet entered his temple absolutely straight and death
followed instantaneously.”
Franz Josef turned on him, demanding, “What do you mean ‘the
bullet’?”
“Yes, Your Majesty, the bullet. We found it, the bullet with which he
shot himself.”
“He? He shot himself? That is not true. She poisoned him. I repeat,
Rudolf did not shoot himself. If you say that, you must prove it.”
With deep sympathy Widerhofer had now to describe first how
carefully the girl had been laid out and then how Rudolf had shot
himself, as, in order to obtain greater accuracy of aim, he did it in front
of a mirror standing on the night table, thus removing all doubt that he
had taken his own life.
And now for a moment the Emperor Franz Josef almost collapsed in
an agony of grief, weeping and sobbing in the most heartbreaking way.
Then he asked, “Did Rudolf leave a letter of farewell?”
“Several letters. But none for Your Majesty.”
On the table in the bedroom at Mayerling there lay a telegram from
Rudolf to the Prior of the Cistercian monastery of Heiligenkreuz, asking
him to come to Mayerling at once and pray over his body with the
monks. Besides this there were several letters, among them one to his
wife Stéphanie and one to his sister, all of which – the one to the
Archduchess Valerie most certainly – had apparently been written
beforehand in Vienna. Only the one to Sisi seemed to have been written
at Mayerling, where Rudolf had felt a longing to turn to his mother’s
compassion in his last hours. According to the testimony of the Emperor
Franz Josef, all the letters were more or less variations on the same
theme, which was that Rudolf had to die because his honor demanded it.
They were all very brief and concise; only those to Sisi and Valerie
contained some remarks of greater significance.
To his sister, Rudolf definitively confessed, “I do not die willingly,”
and he advised her to go abroad with her husband when the Emperor
died as it was impossible to foresee what might happen in Austria after
that

318
 In the letter to Sisi were words of love and gratitude to her and the
Emperor, to whom he did not dare to write. “I know quite well,” he said,
“that I was not worthy to be his son.”
Then Rudolf spoke of the survival of his soul and referred to the girl
who had died with him as a pure, atoning angel. He asked the Empress to
have him buried at the girl’s side in the monastery of Heiligenkreuz. It is
evident that without her perhaps he might not have dared to face death,
but that it was not on her account that he did so. But no definite reason is
mentioned in any of the Crown Prince’s letters. This is to be sought in
his whole physical and mental state during his last two years.
The Crown Prince was laid out on the bed in his room in the Burg.
Immediately after his conversation with Widerhofer, the Emperor entered
the room where nobody else was present but the Crown Prince's aide-de-
camp, Arthur Freiherr von Giesl, and a priest.
“Where has the Crown Prince been laid?” asked Franz Josef.
“Where he lived as a bachelor, Your Majesty.”
“Is he much disfigured?”
“No, Your Majesty.”
“Please cover him up well. The Empress wishes to see him.”
With these words the Emperor left the room.
Giesl laid the white blanket over the Crown Prince’s folded hands and
drew it high up to his throat. This was what afterwards gave rise to the
absurd reports that the Crown Prince’s hands had been covered with cuts.
On the contrary, they were absolutely uninjured. Giesl himself had
placed white gloves on them.

About seven o’clock in the morning, the Emperor arrived, wearing

gloves and a saber, and entered the room where his dead son lay. He
stood before the dead body in silence for a quarter of an hour. At noon
the Empress Sisi, Valerie and the Archduke Franz Salvator came. A
priest was praying in the chamber of death. The windows were draped,
and candles were burning to the right and left of a crucifix at the foot of
the bed. There lay Sisi’s only son, covered up to the chest with a white
sheet and surrounded with flowers. The light bandage around his head
did not disfigure him, his cheeks and ears were still rosy with the healthy
hues of youth, and the changeable and often bitter expression which was
so characteristic of him in life had given way to a happy smile. He
seemed to be blissfully asleep.

319
 Sobbing aloud, Sisi sank down at foot of the bed. As Franz Josef was
not present, for a moment she could let herself go. During the last
terrible twenty-four hours she had made superhuman efforts to control
herself for her husband’s sake and had fought down her own terrible
grief.
As always in crucial moments of stress, Sisi was at her post. All her
play-acting and fantastic imaginings fell away from her. In the moment
of bitter need, the greatness, nobility and goodness of her nature stood
out and she was ready for every sacrifice.
And so, she pulled herself together during the sad meals with her
husband so as not to show how terribly this trial had affected her. They
were joined at these meals by Stéphanie, too, with her child, little Erzsi,
at the sight of whom the Emperor burst into tears.
For the first time the Empress lost her composure for an instant in the
presence of her husband and began to weep bitterly.
It was very hard for the Emperor to have to admit publicly that
Rudolf had committed suicide but his Ministers pressed him to make the
truth known, as nobody any longer believed it had been a natural death.
And so a medical certificate was published in the Wiener Zeitung of
February 2, 1889, stating, among other things, that, on examination, the
Crown Prince’s brain had revealed “pathological symptoms that are
shown by experience to be the usual accompaniment of abnormal mental
conditions and justified the assumption that the deed took place during a
state of mental derangement.”
Though this explanation was a consolation to the Emperor Franz
Josef, Sisi received it with very different feelings. She believed in
predestination, and paralyzed with grief as she was, began to tell herself
that it was her own inherited blood that had been the cause of these
appalling phenomena in Rudolf’s brain.
“Why did Franz Josef ever enter my father's house?” she exclaimed
in despair. “Why did I have to see him and why did he have to know
me?”
Since her short interview with the Emperor and Empress immediately
after the news had been received, Frau Schratt had hardly been able to
rest. But her profession did not allow her to remain idle even on that
terrible day and she was fully occupied by rehearsals. On the evening of
the thirty-first, however, she begged Ida Ferenczy for news of Their

320
Majesties. On the following day, the actress appeared again and did all
she could to find words of consolation.
“Your Majesty has three angels about you,” she said, “the Empress
and Their Highnesses Valerie and Gisela, to watch over you, love you
and console you.”
“Yes, you are right,” replied Franz Josef, taking Sisi’s hand in his,
while the Empress gazed long and sadly at him.
“If I could have Rudolf back again,” she said on another occasion, “I
should like him to be a daughter, not the Crown Prince again. Yes, from
his very childhood he was kept away from us too much and brought up
so differently from an ordinary child.”
Meanwhile, the King and Queen of Belgium had arrived from
Brussels. This was nothing but a terrible burden to the Emperor and
Empress, and especially to Sisi who had never been on good terms with
them. She would have preferred to be alone with those most closely
related to her, together with the Princess Gisela, who had hurried to
Vienna from Munich, and whom she led to the Crown Prince’s bedside,
when, for the last time, she kissed her son’s cold lips.
But on the third night she suddenly entered Valerie’s room.
“It is not true,” she said. “It is impossible that Rudolf is lying up there
dead. I must go up and see if it is true,” and Valerie only prevented this
with difficulty.
The self-control that Sisi had managed to maintain over the last few
days was soon transformed into wild grief. After all, the Emperor Franz
Josef had stronger nerves and his work helped him over the hardest
trials.
“Throughout all these sad days,” wrote the Prussian military attaché
in Vienna, “the Emperor did not sign a single military report a day later
than usual, even on January 30, and since then he has been working
exactly as he did before. Only a few people, even here, suspected their
Monarch of possessing such strength of mind. Never, not even now, has
His Majesty lost his firm faith in the future of Austria and her exalted
mission, or in the love of his army and his people.”
It was no empty phrase when, in his address to the deputation of
condolence from the Austrian Parliament, the Emperor said, “I can find
no words warm enough to express how much I owe to my dearly beloved
wife the Empress during these sad days, and what a great support she has

321
been to me … Just tell people this. The more widely you make it known,
the more grateful I shall be to you.”
But when Franz Josef looked at his wife now, he could only be
alarmed for her, which is why he implored her not to attend the funeral,
as he knew well enough how painful it was for her to appear in public at
all, especially on such an occasion as this. So before four o’clock on
February 5, Sisi and Valerie entered the Josefskapelle so as not to see the
funeral procession crossing the courtyard, and there they remained
praying during the whole of the gloomy ceremony. Franz Josef and the
Princess Gisela did not return until half-past five in the afternoon.
“I bore up well,” said the Emperor in a trembling voice. “It was only
in the crypt that I could not endure it any longer. But never did a funeral
take place under such circumstances as today.”
At five o’clock on the afternoon of the following day, vigils were read
for the Crown Prince. The chapel in the Burg looked almost sinister, all
hung with black. There were crosses everywhere with the name of
Rudolf above his coat of arms. In the middle of the chapel was the great
catafalque with his medals and gloves, and the service was accompanied
by solemn music. The effect was awe-inspiring and gruesome. Sisi was
as pale as death under her heavy black veil. She racked her brains in an
endeavor to understand how and why the whole thing had happened.
Neither she nor the Emperor really knew why Rudolf had taken his life.
He had never been frank with them and the bitterness of earlier days rose
up once more in Sisi’s mind, revived by her present grief.
When she returned from the service, she went to her dressing room,
remarking to Valerie, “Now all these people who have spoken so much
evil about me from the very moment of my arrival will have the
consolation that I shall pass away without leaving a trace behind me in
Austria.”
Such reflections as these made Valerie anxious. Once, when Franz
Josef remarked, “One grows docile under the weight of misfortune,” Sisi
remarked to Valerie, “I don’t know. I only feel hardened and can scarcely
pray.”
But during the Requiem Mass in the Burg chapel the following day,
when the deeply moving Libera was being sung, Sisi burst into tears and
said in Magyar, “Ah, how deeply I love and worship the great, great
Jehovah. I cannot say how much.” When she heard this remark, Valerie

322
thanked God that her fear that Sisi might entirely lose her faith had not
been justified.
But the Empress was always thinking about how she might be
brought into communion with her dead son. Only in the spirit world, she
thought – supposing such a thing existed – would this be possible.
When the Empress retired on the evening of February 9, she
undressed and washed as usual, and then dismissed Valerie, Ida Ferenczy
and the servants, saying that she wanted to go to bed.
Toward nine o’clock she got up again secretly, dressed herself fully,
left the Burg through a side-door, and, so closely veiled as to be
unrecognizable, hailed the next cab that came along. Then she drove
with all possible speed to the Capuchin monastery on the Neuer Markt,
where Rudolf now lay buried.
The chilling crypt of this monastery, where the coffins of the
Habsburgs lie in rows like goods stored in a warehouse, was repellent to
Sisi and she had never felt any desire to descend to it. But on this
occasion it was as though some inner voice were calling her. She hoped
Rudolf might appear to her and tell her why he had taken his own life
and whether he wished to be buried in the place where he lay.
Dressed in deep mourning, she rang the bell at the monastery door.
When it was opened, she asked to be taken to the Father Superior.
She raised her veil, greeted him and said simply, “I am the Empress.
Please take me down to my son.”
The crypt was hastily illuminated by a few torches placed beside
Rudolf’s grave and then the Father Superior offered to conduct Sisi
downstairs. She made no attempt to stop him until she reached the iron
door entering the crypt, when she requested him to accompany her no
further.
When he respectfully objected, Sisi cut him short with the words, “I
wish to be alone with my son,” and calmly descended the steps to the
gloomy hall, ghostly in the pale illumination of the torches.
She walked straight toward Rudolf’s coffin. The draught stirred the
leaves on the withered wreaths. Fallen flowers rustled here and there like
light footsteps, so that Sisi often turned her head, but she saw nothing.
Then, twice in succession, she called aloud, “Rudolf!”
Her voice echoed spectrally through the hall, but nobody appeared
and nobody answered.

323
 She returned to the Burg disappointed, yet the visit had consoled and
calmed her. Spirits, she said to her daughter the next day while telling
her about the whole episode, may only come if the great Jehovah allows
them.
When Franz Josef heard of this visit to the crypt, he resolved then and
there to remove the Empress from the doleful environment of Vienna
with its constant reminders of this fearful misfortune.

The departure of the Emperor and Empress for Hungary was fixed for
the tenth. At noon on February 11, their private train steamed into the
station at Budapest. All those present raised their hats, but without the
customary shouts of “Eljen!”
The road to the Royal castle was lined by vast crowds of people who
saluted the Imperial pair in silence, only uncovering their heads. There
could have been no more moving expression of their sympathy.
The Emperor Franz Josef had the business of government to occupy
his attention, but grief and despair began to overwhelm Sisi when she
resumed her overly-monotonous and quiet life, occupied mostly by her
study of the Greek language. About a fortnight after the catastrophe she
remarked that she felt as though she had been struck on the head and was
still dazed.
“Since my youth,” she said to Valerie, “I have always had the feeling,
which has now become a conviction, that the great Jehovah means to
lead me into the wilderness where I am to spend my old age as a hermit,
entirely consecrated to Him, in contemplation and worship of His divine
glory. This is my appointed lot and God is leading me to it whether I
wish to go or not.”
Rudolf’s words in his last letter to Valerie made a remarkable
impression on Sisi. She was now of the same opinion as him that
Austrian-Hungarian Empire could not last much longer.
“It will fall to pieces,” she said, “when the Emperor stops holding it
all together by the might of his unblemished character and his self-
sacrificing sense of duty. Nothing else will succeed in supporting this
decaying state.”
“It is hard,” wrote Valerie in her diary, “to imagine a greater contrast
than that between Mamma and Papa. Yet I often ask myself which of
them is the nobler in bearing this sorrow. My mother often causes me
such anxiety. She is capable of everything great, yet incompetent in

324
small things. Now that agitation has given place to the monotony of
everyday life, and Papa at least appears outwardly the same and works as
he always did, life seems to her oppressive and cheerless. Besides, she is
afraid that her ever-increasing grief may become burdensome to Papa
and lead to misunderstandings between them.”
Valerie saw with alarm that this was becoming a fixed idea with Sisi
from which she could no longer be distracted, and she had to listen while
her mother said, “If only Jehovah would take me to Himself so that Papa
could be free and you undisturbed in your future married happiness by
the thought of the disconsolate life I shall lead without you!”
In the midst of her lamentations Sisi would often begin to laugh aloud
out of sheer nerves and talk of the madhouse to which she would yet be
consigned. When Valerie begged her to take care of her health, she only
answered, “Why?”
After such outbreaks of deep grief, she would say things that revealed
her utter apathy in which even her favorite interests – Heine, Greece, and
all the rest – would be completely lost sight of. The committee for the
Heine monument at Düsseldorf, which was, after all, formed on her own
initiative, was told, on making inquiries, that Her Majesty had ceased to
act as its patroness. She had already spent 12,930 marks on models and
preliminary sketches for this projected monument. The model was left in
her possession. It was not until much later that she took up this cherished
idea again, and then purely on her own account.
The Empress spent a great deal of time trying to discover the causes
of the catastrophe. Rudolf’s letters, even the one to his mother, had been
couched in general terms and allowed scope for all kinds of suppositions.
Their Majesties could not make up their minds. At first Franz Josef
inclined toward the view that the tragic affair with the Baroness Vetsera
was solely and wholly responsible for what had happened. But now he
adopted Widenhofer’s opinion that the Crown Prince had died as the
result of mental illness, just as one might die of any other disease. This
enabled him to bear up, but it was impossible to refer to it often in front
of Sisi. The whole family was left with a vague sense of horror that was
generally shared.
Franz Josef anxiously watched the progress of his wife’s depression.
“Make every effort,” he said to Valerie, “to persuade Mamma to take her
cure in March as usual, as the pain in her foot is worse again.” But when
Valerie mentioned the subject, she replied, “No, I will not and cannot

325
hear of such a thing. I cannot leave Papa alone at the present moment
before the eyes of the whole world. For Frau Schratt is not there to
distract him either, as she is away on leave. I should like to go away, but
I will remain here, even if staying here drives me mad.”
The deep mourning into which the Court was plunged only
encouraged the Empress’s usual tendency to shut herself off from
everything, and even the return of spring suggested sad thoughts.
“How could Rudolf part from the spring?” she asked.

At last she was persuaded to spend Easter with the Emperor at Ischl,
after which she went on to Wiesbaden. Newspapers all over the world
were already filled with the wildest rumors of the Empress’s insanity.
Even the Berliner Tageblatt of April 21, 1889, contained a long article to
this effect. Le Matin of April 12, the Gaulois of the following day, and
Le Matin of the seventeenth represented the Empress’s physical and
mental condition as highly disturbing, alleging that she was the victim of
what they called “rational derangement”, filling their pages with
abominable speculations.
The reports were contradicted and it was pointed out that the Empress
was to be seen daily in Wiesbaden, with her daughter and others, taking
walks in the town and the surrounding countryside. But it was no use.
The world believed what was served up to it for breakfast, and from then
on, in its eyes the Empress was insane, although she was only different
from the general run of humanity and crushed for the time by her bitter
grief.
Around this time Ida Ferenczy felt it her duty to draw the Empress’s
attention to the sort of reports that were being circulated about her. Sisi
then began to show herself again in Wiesbaden, and afterwards in
Vienna, on occasions where she would not otherwise have appeared so as
to render the fabrication of these stories a little more difficult.
Her stay at Wiesbaden had a calming effect upon her. One of her
ladies, Sárolta Maljáth, remarked that the Empress’s former sweetness
was coming back and she looked fairly calm, but that there was
something in her expression that struck a melancholy note. This effect
was naturally increased by the heavy crêpe veil that the Empress did not
lay aside even in Wiesbaden.
Sisi continued her Greek studies and had her feet massaged by
Metzger, although she at once undid all the benefits of this by taking too

326
much exercise. She discussed her plans for the future with Baron Nopcsa
in a way that betrayed her intense mental agitation. Her restless love of
travel was still further increased by the misfortune that had overtaken
her.
“Our stay in Lainz,” wrote Nopcsa to Ida Ferenczy, “will last until at
least the middle of June, and then comes Ischl. The following are our
plans, which I tell you in confidence. At the beginning of September, we
mean to go to a Dutch seaside resort where Her Majesty will be treated
for a fortnight by Metzger. From September 15 until the end of October,
we go to Meran. The Archduchess and her fiancé will join us there. After
Meran, there is some idea of Corfu. As you see, our wandering life is
expanding and God knows where we will go next. Her Majesty is well,
thank God, and much calmer, and is already speaking Greek fluently.
This seems to me to occupy her mind fully, which is a favorable sign.
Warsberg is very ill. Her Majesty and I are very worried about the
building project in Corfu as we do not know what Warsberg has done or
where.”
Unhappily, the beneficial effects of the Empress’s cure at Wiesbaden
were, to some extent, undone by an accident in which her private train
was involved between there and Frankfurt on her way back to Lainz on
May 22. One of the luggage vans became derailed and the train began to
rock violently, at which the Empress exclaimed in great alarm, “This is
really quite bizarre. The engine driver must be drunk!” At last the
coupling broke and the train stopped with a jerk that almost threw the
Empress to the ground as she tried to look out of the window to see what
was happening.
All was in the wildest confusion, but as the Empress leaped from the
train with Valerie, her first question was, “Is anybody hurt?” while the
Archduchess cried distractedly, “Where is Franz?”
Fortunately little damage was done and only one person was slightly
injured, but while waiting for the train to start again, the Empress paced
agitatedly up and down the platform and said to her daughter, “Life is
gruesome with its dangers. Mankind is born to nothing but misfortune. I
shall never have a quiet moment when I know you are traveling by
train.”
There was too little to distract the Empress at Lainz as it had nothing
to offer but riding, which she had given up, and shooting, which had
never interested her. She became completely absorbed in her broodings.

327
Her meditations about God and the world often made her religious faith
very precarious, but she always returned to her dominating idea of the
mighty Jehovah before whose destructive power and greatness she would
abase herself. Yet she doubted whether He listened to the prayers of His
creatures, “as,” she said, “everything has been preordained from the
beginning of the ages. Man is powerless against this predestination
through all eternity due solely to Jehovah’s inscrutable will. In His eyes
everything is like the tiniest fly, and, of course, I myself, too. How, then,
could I matter to Him in the least?”
The Empress’s growing apathy was gradually destroying all chance of
her recovering any happiness and inward peace.
“I am too old and weary to struggle,” she would say, although she
was only fifty-two. “My, wings have been singed and now all I long for
is rest.”
On May 28, news arrived that Freiherr, von Warsberg, known rather
cruelly in Vienna as “the last of the Greeks,” had died in Venice in his
fifty-third year. Sisi was greatly affected as she had had the highest
esteem for this fine Greek scholar, as was shown by her entrusting him
with the building of her palace in Corfu which was to bear the name of
her favorite hero, Achilles. It had now to be confided to other hands, and
a retired naval officer, Freiherr von Bukovich, who although practical
and competent, had none of Warsberg’s scholarship, was appointed as his
successor.
The Court now moved to Ischl where the Empress again made long
expeditions to her favorite beauty spots, and often went and prayed in the
chapel of the Virgin that she had built for Valerie on the Jainzen.
In July she went on to Feldafing as grief had drawn her closer to her
own relatives whom she had not visited for the last three years. Her
mother was careful not to mention Rudolf during the whole visit, and her
family was so concerned at her state of mind that, when she left for
Gastein, Gisela whispered into her sister’s ear, “For Heaven’s sake,
watch out for Mamma at the waterfall at Gastein!”
Nor were her fears entirely groundless as Sisi’s mind continually
obsessed about the subject of death. “How I envy Rudolf,” she would
often say. “But there again, one does not know what comes after. If one
knew that, then it would indeed be easy.”
She now heard from Nopcsa that Count Andrássy was suffering from
cancer of the bladder and sent him a kindly message through Nopcsa,

328
who added on his own account and yet certainly in accordance with his
mistress’s wishes, that Andrássy owed it to them all to take care of his
health as he was the last hope for Austria-Hungary.
The Count replied on August 6 in a letter that ends with a ringing
vindication of his Queen.
“I can find no words,” he wrote, “to describe Her Majesty’s
graciousness in thinking of me at such a distance. It is more than sweet
of her. You know what a high opinion I have always had of her mind and
heart, but since reading some of her poems, this has been transformed
into the greatest admiration. When I consider that, in addition to as much
intelligence as would do honor even to a very great man, there is also
room for so much heart, I can only say that there is no other such woman
upon the earth. The only thing that grieves me is that so few people
know what she is. I should like the whole world to know it and admire
her, as such a rare personality deserves. Perhaps she is right in not
wishing to concern herself with politics. It is not always a gratifying task,
but with her great understanding it would be. I can only regret that she
hides her superior intelligence and great heart, in comparison with which
the famous Maria Theresa’s were only those of a good housekeeper, as if
it were not proper to display such talents. I simply console myself with
this one thought: that I am one of the few fortunate people who have had
an opportunity of learning to know and admire a woman of whose true
nature so many millions of her subjects have no real idea.”
Nopesa showed the letter to the Empress, who remarked, “Yes, he is
one of my few true friends in this world.”
From Gastein, the Empress returned to Ischl, where Franz Josef paid
her occasional visits. In spite of all his love, reverence and sympathy for
her, he had so much weight upon his shoulders already that his wife’s
alarmingly disconsolate state made him irritable at times. If he ever
answered her rather curtly, or made an impatient gesture, the Empress’s
sensitive feelings were wounded at once and she would contrast it with
his bearing toward Frau Schratt.
She would weep bitterly to Valerie, saying, “Why was I born? My life
is a useless one and I only come between the Emperor and Frau Schratt. I
really play an almost ridiculous part.
“Marriage is a nonsensical institution,” she said discontentedly on
one occasion. “One is sold as a child of fifteen and one takes an oath that
one does not understand but can never undo.”

329
 On August 26, while she was taking a walk with Valerie, she said
suddenly, “I love the great Jehovah and abase myself in the dust before
Him, without hope of any reward.” And so saying, she threw herself full-
length on the ground. “Only in this way,” she said, “can one pray to the
great Jehovah, and one can only worship Him, for what is the use of
prayers when everything is preordained?”
But the next day she was praying to Jehovah again and vowing to go
to Maxiazell if her prayers were granted.
This year, seeing how matters stood with his wife, Franz Josef
encouraged her plans for travel as he hoped that a visit to Madonna di
Campiglio and Meran would do her good. Avoiding the railway as much
as possible, she traveled on horseback or walked, and to the Emperor’s
relief, Dr. Widerhofer was included in the party, riding along the narrow
mountain paths behind the Empress on a mule. For these long walks Sisi
would tuck up her skirt to the knee, and on the march would sometimes
retire behind a bush and take off her petticoat. When Widerhofer saw
this, he discreetly tried to turn his mule back on the narrow path, but on
one occasion it slipped, and although it saved itself at once, the doctor,
who was not much of a horseman, fell off heavily, breaking his collar-
bone and seriously damaging his ribs. This was quite enough to make
Sisi repeat that bad luck pursued her in all she did, and spread to her
companions too.
They crossed the Mendel to Meran, where they stayed at the Schloss
Trauttmansdorff. The Empress was now comparatively free from
sciatica, so she went on enormous treks among the mountains with an
excellent guide named Buchensteiner, who noticed how differently she
was affected by beautiful views from other people, as they always left
her sad and depressed. During her wanderings she would often be seen
standing for a long time before the wayside crucifixes with their
clumsily-carved figures.
Sisi received affectionate letters from Franz Josef regularly, telling
her about the smallest details of his life and especially all that concerned
Frau Schratt.
“Low though my spirits were on the morning of October 4 [his name
day],” he wrote, “they brightened up a little when I received your letter
and one from our friend, with a pot of four-leaved clover, and when an
unusually splendid, sunny day lit up the woods and snow-covered

330
mountains with the most magnificent and varied coloring. You are right.
After all, Nature is the best comforter.”
Toward the end of October, Franz Josef came on a visit to Sisi in
Meran, but he found his wife’s spirits in no way improved. She still
shrank from seeing people and had almost stopped appearing for meals.
It was now evident that, at the best, the only thing that united the
Emperor and Empress was their common grief, and the realization of this
made them even more disconsolate.
“I could go mad,” said Sisi, “when I look forward and see life still
stretching before me for years to come!”
In such a mood as this, the Empress took leave of her family and went
to Miramar, where the yacht of the same name awaited her under the
command of Count Cassini. It took her to Corfu, where she wanted to
see how the construction of her house was progressing, hoping that the
beauty of the island might alleviate her gloom and despair. But she did
not intend to stay long in Corfu as she knew that too long a stay in any
one place would only encourage her broodings.
The Greek Thermojannis now left Sisi’s service and wept like a child
when he said goodbye to her, although by now the Empress could not
bear him. A new master now took his place, named Rhousso
Rhoussopoulos, a somewhat sallow, unkempt-looking person. Sisi could
already understand and speak Greek, but wished to master the literary
language thoroughly. “Do not think I am joking,” she said to her new
master. “Quite seriously, I want you to be strict with me and draw my
attention to every mistake as one ought to learn a thing thoroughly or not
begin at all.”
While the Empress was in Corfu, Kaiser Wilhelm II expressed a wish
to visit her on his way to the wedding of his sister to the Crown Prince of
Greece. He was on his yacht, the Hohenzollern, escorted by a squadron
of warships. But Sisi excused herself on the ground that she was not yet
in a fit state to receive visitors. She fled from the villa to another place
nearby and remained hidden there all day. Kaiser Wilhelm, assuming her
to be at Gasturi, sailed close to the cliffs on which the villa stood with his
squadron of nine gigantic vessels in review order, and the whole
squadron fired a salute of twenty-one guns.
When the squadron entered the harbor, Baron Nopcsa went on board
to bear the Empress Sisi’s excuses to the German Emperor and Empress
in person. They were both most sympathetic and gracious, although no

331
doubt inwardly disappointed as they would have liked to see for
themselves how Sisi was, and her behavior seemed to confirm the
rumors in circulation about her.
As a matter of fact, her stay in Corfu calmed Sisi’s nerves and did her
a great deal of good. The expression in her eyes was noticeably calmer
and she joined in quite eagerly in planning her travels for the winter.
From Corfu she went on to Sicily, passing through the Straits of
Messina to Palermo, then touched by Malta and Tunis, from which she
visited the ruins of Carthage. She did not celebrate her name day or
receive any congratulations. She had, indeed, instructed the Ministry for
Foreign Affairs to intimate to all foreign Courts that in future she did not
wish to receive any more congratulations [Glückwünsche] as the word
“Glück” [happiness] had no further meaning for her.
On December 4, the Empress returned to Vienna and was met at the
station by Valerie, but on stepping out of the train, she recalled how
Rudolf had always been there to meet her before and burst into tears.
“Do you know, my, child,” she said, “if it had not been for the sake of
seeing you, I should hardly have had strength to return? The Hofburg in
Vienna is a terrible weight upon my spirits. Here one not only feels what
has happened, one is reminded of it every day, and positively sees it all
over again, and it is impossible to shake off the burden. Do you know, I
often feel as though Rudolf’s bullet killed my faith? I worship the great
Jehovah, but apart from that …”
Sisi reviewed her wardrobe. She never meant to wear brightly colored
clothes again in her life, so she put aside everything of that sort and gave
away dresses, parasols, hats and gloves. Valerie begged her father not to
spend Christmas Eve in the Hofburg, fearing the effect it would have on
her mother, so Franz Josef and Sisi, with the Archduchess and her fiancé,
spent that day at Miramar. For the first time there were no Christmas
trees and no presents, and Sisi wore a light gray dress for a few minutes
only in memory of Valerie’s betrothal the previous year.
On New Year’s Day all the usual Courts were cancelled and nobody
was admitted to Sisi’s presence except Valerie and Franz Salvator. Even
Valerie now longed to escape to a healthier atmosphere and find a sphere
of her own, as she hoped to do through marriage. She had to face the fact
that there were many things that the Empress need not have taken quite
so much to heart. Too often she withdrew into herself with wounded

332
pride instead of saying what she felt, with the result that she had ended
up becoming estranged from almost everybody.
January 30 was the first anniversary of Rudolf’s death and Sisi
arranged with the Emperor to go to Mayerling, which she had never
seen. The little shooting lodge had been turned into a Carmelite convent
and the room in which Rudolf had died into a chapel. The Emperor and
Empress drove out with Valerie through the lovely woods, but nobody
spoke a word during the whole trip. At Mayerling their chaplain from the
Burg chapel read mass at an altar built on the very spot where Rudolf’s
bed had once stood. Sisi listened with dry eyes as though in some terrible
dream, while the Emperor was calm and full of Christian resignation.
Sisi thought bitterly about all those who had played such a sinister part
during the last months of Rudolf’s life. After such experiences, she
thought, it is impossible to retain any belief in life, love and friendship.
On February 18, she was shocked to hear that Count Gyula Andrássy
had died of his painful complaint at Volosca. “My last and only friend is
dead,” she said. And now it seemed that she could find no peace.
Although this death was not unexpected, it was another bitter blow
because, according to Valerie’s testimony, “she clung to him with true
and steadfast friendship as she did, perhaps, to no other person.”
“Now that Andrássy is dead,” said Sisi to Valerie, “I realize for the
first time what he was to me. Not until now have I felt utterly deserted,
without a single counsellor or friend. Andrássy’s spirit will is not to be
found either in his sons or in any other person.”
She went and laid a wreath of lilies of the valley on his coffin as he
lay in state in the Akademie, and once again Hungary saw its Queen
kneeling in prayer beside a great patriot.

In the middle of March Sisi started out on her usual spring holiday, this
time going to Wiesbaden and Heidelberg. When they walked together,
she would say to her daughter, “Only through you can an occasional
gleam of brightness still come over me. I can hardly conceive what my
life will be after we are parted by your marriage. The time between now
and your wedding is like a condemned man’s last hours.”
Gradually, however, she began to emerge from the absolute seclusion
in which she had lived since her son’s death. On April 11, 1890, she
received a visit from Kaiser Wilhelm and, a little later, one from the
Empress Frederick, whom she loved and found not only simple and

333
sympathetic, but also very clever. The Empress Frederick, too, had been
utterly crushed by the death of her husband and felt terribly bitter against
the world, although not against God.
“My loss is no less hard than yours,” she said to Sisi. “People’s
ingratitude toward me is more than flesh and blood can bear.”
“All that that happens is preordained,” replied Sisi sadly.
“Ah no! I believe that, in the long run, God in Heaven orders all
things for our good. For the rest, I simply wait, as no man can know what
comes after death.”
Shortly after this visit, Sisi returned to Vienna, where her life resumed
its accustomed routine, although a new person now formed part of her
intimate circle. Frau Schratt was often the fourth person at dinner with
her and the Emperor and Valerie, for instance on May 7, 1890, when the
Archduchess noted that she found the situation rather an awkward one
and could not understand how Sisi could call it so homely.
More bad news arrived, this time from Ratisbon, where Néné Taxis,
the Empress’s eldest sister, was seriously ill. It seemed as though
everything was conspiring together that year to prevent Sisi from shaking
off the effects of the Crown Prince’s death. By the time she reached her
sister’s bedside, she found her dying, although unaware of the
seriousness of her condition and delighted to see her “old Sisi” again.
“We have both had to bear some hard knocks in our lives,” said Sisi.
“Yes, because we have hearts,” replied her sister.
A few days later she died in terrible agony and Sisi returned home
shattered and once more at odds with God and the world.
“I can understand now,” she said, “how a man might be capable of
committing suicide merely out of dread of such a lingering end.”
The Emperor Franz Josef had hoped that he might gradually
accustom the Empress to appearing in public again, but this fresh grief
undid whatever progress she had made. “The Emperor,” wrote the
German Ambassador to Kaiser Wilhelm on May 12, 1890, “is the person
who suffers most from his consort’s isolation, and the whole social
burden falls entirely upon him. The very idea of an Imperial Court is
vanishing, and the relationship between him and Court society is
becoming more and more precarious.”
Every possible device was resorted to in the hope of tempting Sisi out
of her retirement now that eighteen months had elapsed since the
disaster, but without success. Even at Ischl she was surrounded by an

334
established no-go zone whereby even the Emperor’s aides-de-camp were
only admitted to certain circumscribed places in the immediate
surroundings of the Imperial Villa so as not to impinge on Her Majesty.
Once only, when King Alexander of Serbia, then only fourteen years of
age, arrived at Ischl, could the Empress be persuaded to appear at dinner,
which she never did now. She came in a few moments late, entering
through a curtained door at the very moment when a footman was going
out. They bumped into each other violently, but all the Empress said was,
“How clumsy!”

Valerie’s approaching wedding now occupied all Sisi’s thoughts. “I

cannot understand,” she would often say, “how people can look forward
to marriage so much and expect so much good to result from it. But if it
makes you happy, I will gladly make every sacrifice.”
During these months Sisi tried to make her little daughter’s last days
in her old home as pleasant as possible. She took a personal interest in
every detail of her trousseau and was always arranging small surprises
for her. She even had one of her poems, of which Valerie was fondest, set
to music.
It began as follows:

O ask not of tomorrow

So fair it is today.
Scatter our care and sorrow,
May winds bear them away.

One evening at Ischl this song was suddenly heard being sung
beneath Valerie’s window by a male choral society. Sisi joined her
daughter and both of them listened with deep emotion, then the Empress
threw her arms around her daughter with tears in her eyes and said, “I
thank you for always having been a good child to me.” And this, said
Valerie, was the most beautiful moment in her life.
And so the morning of the wedding day came around, July 31, 1890.
Sisi was deathly pale as she drove to the church alone with Valerie
through masses of cheering people in the last carriage of the bridal
procession. The ceremony went off with due pomp and dignity, and
when the bride changed her clothes afterwards, the Empress helped her,
weeping bitterly.

335
 This depressed Valerie so much that she took her Uncle Karl
Theodor’s hand and said to him earnestly, “I beg you to promise me that
you will always be a true friend to Mamma in all life’s contingencies.
She will certainly have need of one in future.”
The Duke clasped her hand warmly and gave her his promise.
A long separation from Valerie awaited Sisi as she had announced her
intention of going on a cruise all round Europe. And now the moment of
parting arrived, and as the young couple drove off, the Empress felt as
though her heart was being torn from her body.

336
Chapter 14

The Empress’s Odyssey (1890-1897)

Sisi was now left alone with her unrest, and could hardly bear to stay at
home for a single day. First she went to Bavaria, but even there she did
not remain long; she felt she must go far, far away over the sea. She
embarked on a cutter, the Chazalie [Star of the Sea], that was awaiting
her at Dover.
On her very first trip the boat ran into the very worst gale the sailors
had ever experienced and had great difficulty fighting her way back to
harbor. But Sisi had herself lashed to a mast and thoroughly enjoyed the
spectacle of the warring elements, while the foam-crested billows broke
over the deck and drenched her to the skin.
This experience caused consternation among the members of her
suite, as their letters home testify.
“All I can say about this sea trip is that it was appalling,” wrote the
Countess Festetics, whose criticisms grew sharper as the years went by,
to Frau von Feenczy. “It was a miracle that we ever reached land at all.
Nobody can imagine what it was like … What I suffered during these
eighteen hours beggars description … The idea of going on board again
is horrible. I pray that my strength may not fail me … For me, too, this
sort of thing is far too much.”
The Chazalie had been damaged by the storm and had to be repaired
before the voyage proper began again. Since she was on an English
yacht, the Empress did not travel as the Countess of Hohenembs this
time, but as Mrs. Nicolson. Owing to the prevalence of cholera, they
were not allowed to touch in at any Spanish port, which pleased the
Empress as it gave her a good excuse for not visiting the Queen of Spain
at San Sebastian, which she would otherwise have been unable to avoid.
The yacht sailed straight for Portugal, meeting with very rough seas, and
all the ladies-in-waiting were so sick that they could not attend upon the
Empress, so the Greek tutor was needed all the more. But he, too, was
often so ill that he could not perform his duties, and the Empress, who
was the hardiest of the party, complained of losing so much time from
her Greek studies. But the gigantic waves were inexorable and wreaked
their will upon even the Empress at last.

337
 The yacht, with its “half done-for passengers,” to quote Marie
Festetics, had hardly berthed in the harbor of Oporto before Sisi was on
shore, where, in spite of the great heat, she spent two whole days
walking around the city and its beautiful surroundings from morning
until night. Only under such circumstances did she feel entirely in her
element.
“Her Majesty,” wrote Marie Festetics, “is so contented at such times
that it helps one to endure the fatigue.”
On receiving an invitation to dine with the Royal family, however, the
Empress sent regrets at being compelled to decline. The reigning Queen,
whose consort was not in Lisbon, affected to consider the excuse valid,
but the Queen Dowager Maria Pin, a proud princess of Savoy, who had
signed the invitation, replied curtly and imperiously, “Tell Her Majesty
that I particularly desire to see her, and that if she does not come to us at
Cintra, I shall have to pay her a visit on her yacht.”
Thus the Empress could hardly do otherwise than to call upon the two
Queens, but the moment this was over she resumed her rapid walks.
“Her sole object,” wrote the Countess Festetics to Ida Ferenczy, “is to
keep moving. When we got home I collapsed on my bed with
weariness.”
A projected excursion to Alhandra, on the estuary of the Tagus, was
abandoned owing to an outbreak of cholera, because, as Sisi said to
Rhoussopoulos, although she was quite ready and willing to die, she had
no desire for a long and painful death. “But,” she added, “I am
responsible for the lives of my suite, so the trip must be cancelled.”
On September 15, 1890, they sailed from Lisbon for Gibraltar, where
Sisi spent eight hours on the first day and ten on the next wandering
around the town and fortress with the Countess Festetics, afterwards
crossing on a rough sea to Tangiers. Here, after walking around the town
for seven hours, the Empress asked the Countess if she could go on a
little longer, and on receiving a hesitant “yes,” went on for another hour.
The voyage continued along the north coast of Africa, the same story
being repeated at Oran, where the Countess Festetics held out with
difficulty.
Baron Nopcsa shook his head over it all. “This mania for movement
of Her Majesty’s is getting worse,” he wrote to Ida Ferenczy. “God
knows what it may lead to.”

338
 On September 25, the yacht was driven by the weather into the port
of Tenéz.
“The storm has driven us into this little harbor,” wrote the Countess
to Ida Ferenczy, “and here I take up the tale of our sufferings once more
… Even on board it is becoming more intolerable every day, the
hairdresser growing more and more insolent and giving herself the airs
of a great lady. The yacht is so small that one cannot escape from her …
Her Majesty tells us the most intimate things. She is very sweet and kind,
but I often tremble for her beautiful soul, foundering in egoism and
paradox.”
Her impression was, however, that Sisi’s state of mind was on the
whole better, as she indulged in eccentric views and severe strictures less
frequently and showed more concern for other people. But whatever
happened, she continued to insist on a perpetual change of scenery. She
had hardly reached Algiers before she was hurrying on to Ajaccio in
Corsica to see Napoléon’s birthplace.
“What a great man he was,” she said, “but what a pity that he wanted
an Imperial crown.”
And so the voyage continued ever further and further afield to
Marseilles, the Hyères Islands with their glorious pine-woods, and
finally to Italy, the last place she visited being Florence.
The Italian Prime Minister, Crispi, had not yet come to an agreement
with Pope Leo XIII, and when he heard of the Empress’s arrival, he was
afraid she might go to Rome and pay an conspicuous visit to the Vatican,
which showed how little he knew her. As for the Emperor Franz Josef,
his wife’s vagaries were a perpetual source of disquiet and alarm to him,
and for political reasons her visit to Italy was most unwelcome. But her
lack of any fixed plans and her erratic wanderings to an unknown
destination made it almost impossible for him to arrange anything with
her by correspondence.
In the result, Sisi went on to Pompeii and Capri without visiting
Rome, merely writing a polite letter to the King and Queen of Italy, and
all friction was avoided.
At Naples, she was met by the Miramar, in which she set sail for
Corfu, arriving on November 25. She had brought a number of marble
statues with her from Italy to adorn her villa, including one of a Peri, a
kindly light-fairy in Milton’s ‘Paradise Lost,’ and another of Sappho,
together with busts of Homer and of Greek philosophers. Her spirits had

339
improved, but she dreaded going home as she feared that she had entirely
alienated the Emperor and disliked the idea of being a burden to her
newly-married daughter and son-in-law.
On December 1, 1890, she met the Emperor at the Palace of Miramar.
It was indeed high time for her to return, for even in Hungary, where she
was idolized, there had been open references in the Chamber of Deputies
to the growing infrequency of royal visits.
Valerie had hurried to Vienna to greet her mother, and although Sisi
once more assured her that since the parting at Ischl her heart was dead
and she had become a different person, the Archduchess found her
mother far less bitter and hoped that in time she would reconcile herself
to the change.
The same expectations were felt at Court. It was already being
intimated semi-officially that the Empress would give some big dinner
parties for the diplomatic corps and attend certain evening receptions.
“That will make a good impression,” reported Prince Reuss, the
German Ambassador, “as the comments about this exalted and sorely-
tried lady have really gone to extremes.”
Sisi made this effort because she was anxious not to reveal her real
state of mind to the Emperor too plainly, knowing what effect it would
have upon him. In her relationship with Franz Josef she followed a
“fixed program” that she had thought up during the storms on the
Chazalie. Her conversations with him were mainly about Frau Schratt or
the theater. For the rest, she did only what she was absolutely obliged to
do.
“I am like a log,” she wrote to Valerie, “and even more fatalistic than
I used to be.”
She declined an invitation to spend Christmas with her daughter and
son-in-law at Lichtenberg near Wels, where the Archduke Franz Salvator
was garrisoned with his regiment, the 15th Dragoons, because, she said,
she never wanted to see a Christmas tree again. When Valerie proposed
coming and spending Christmas Eve with her at the Hofburg, she
declined this too.
“On December 24,” she wrote, “people should stay at home in their
own nest and celebrate the festival with a tree and everything, in as
beautiful and homely a style as possible. It will be my joy to think of you
from a distance on that evening. Happiness exists only in the
imagination.”

340
 Sisi got her feelings under control in the New Year and appeared in
society for the first time at a great reception on January 17. She was
dressed in the deepest mourning with black crêpe and many of the ladies
were in tears, so that, in spite of the lively dresses and flashing jewels,
the whole affair was more like a funeral than a carnival celebration.
Eight days later, accompanied by the Countess Festetics, Sisi paid her
first visit to her daughter and son-in-law at Lichtenegg, where, contrary
to her expectations, she felt thoroughly at home. The Archduchess
Valerie begged her to stay a little longer, but she wouldn’t.
“It is precisely because I like being here that I mustn’t stay,” she said,
“as the seagull is out of place in the swallow’s nest. I will take a
photograph of your home at Lichtenegg back with me. I am content with
that and I will commend the swallows and their nest to the protection of
the great Jehovah.”
Valerie had actually persuaded the Empress to eat normal and even
substantial meals – a difficult matter as, with every mouthful, Sisi was
afraid that she would grow as fat “as a tub.” There was certainly no
danger of this as she was extremely thin, but her terror of becoming stout
was now an obsession against which, as Valerie said, it was impossible to
fight.

In the middle of March, the Empress invited the young couple to go with
her to Corfu in the Miramar and see her villa. As the Countess Festetics
had suffered severely from the strain of the previous journey, her place
was taken by a new maid-of-honor, Countess Janka Mikes, who had
previously been subjected to a medical examination to test her stamina
for walking.
The Miramar arrived in Corfu on March 18 and anchored
immediately in front of the high ridge in the hamlet of Gasturi, on which
the villa was being built. It could be seen from far out to sea, and in
accordance with the ideas of the late Baron von Warsberg, was intended
to represent a Royal palace of the golden age of the Phaeacians. The
terrace was already completed and from this the Empress showed Valerie
the view out to the open sea between two lofty cypresses, saying, “This
is where I would like to be buried.”
Next they went on to Corinth and Athens, where no notice had been
given of their visit. They found nobody in the Royal palace except the
Princess Sophie, the Emperor Frederick’s simple daughter. The Empress

341
tried to talk Greek to her, but the Crown Princess maintained an
uncomfortable silence as she did not understand a single word of her
country’s language. The Empress found this amusing, just as she did
when she talked Greek with Rhoussopoulos about the Countess Mikes
when she was present, and then talked Hungarian with her about the
Greek tutor. In the evening they visited the Acropolis by moonlight, after
which the Archduke and Archduchess returned home, while Sisi sailed
for Sicily. But although she was enchanted with its beauty, she wrote to
Valerie from Gasturi on April 22 that it could not be compared with
Corfu.
“Although I have seen so many lovely places,” she said, “I prefer this
to them all. Wherever I go, I say on my return, ‘This is the loveliest spot
on earth.’ The English claim that Tasmania is equally beautiful, but that
would be a rather long expedition … I pray for you to the great Jehovah.
May the Almighty take my little turtle-dove and her beloved one under
His protection and send them in due time some little turtle doves. I am
now going to Mass and will pray with this special intention. Today the
sun is shining, the sea is blue, and the island shines as green as an
emerald in all the freshness of spring after warm, abundant rain. If only
Póka and you could be here!”
Valerie always showed the Emperor letters like this containing a little
good news and he responded with news of Frau Schratt. He had
gradually formed a habit of taking a walk with her every day in the park
at Schönbrunn by way of distraction, or meeting her at the house of Frau
von Ferenczy, prior to which Frau von Ferenczy would always receive a
note in his own hand asking if she would “perhaps be so gracious as to
allow his friend [die Freundin] to come about one o’clock.”
Sisi was preparing to return to the Villa Hermes at Lainz at the end of
April. Meanwhile, she had been learning not only ancient but also
modern Greek, into which she translated ‘Hamlet,’ ‘King Lear’ and ‘The
Tempest’ almost without help. ‘The Iliad’ had ceased to attract her as she
found the warring repellent, and ‘The Odyssey’ was now her favorite
poem.
But she was now bored with Rhoussopoulos, while the little Janko
Kephalas from Corfu was not intellectual enough and was, moreover, apt
to collapse after any kind of long walk. A search was therefore made
among the young Greeks studying at the University of Vienna, which led
to the discovery of two brothers named Christomanos, who could speak

342
German, and, like so many other Greeks of the merchant class, hailed
from Macedonia. One of these, Constantine Christomanos, was now
temporarily attached to the Empress’s service He was small and
hunchbacked, with a poetic and extremely sensitive nature. From time to
time the Empress would invite him to Lainz, where he would accompany
her on one of her now famous walks, often in the pouring rain.
For the young man, who had always previously been painfully
conscious of his deformity, this was an overwhelming experience. Sisi
was no longer the transcendent beauty of her former days as the years
had left their traces on her. Wind and weather had tanned and wrinkled
her skin, while now and again something cold and somber in her
expression would reveal the hardening process within. Yet the
indescribable dignity of her presence, her slender figure, her gliding walk
and her soft, musical voice remained, and occasionally a gleam of her
former loveliness would break like sunshine from her eyes. Add to this
her most unusual type of conversation, filled now with mournful
skepticism, now with a cynical irony, and then again with poetry and
aspiration toward all that was noble and beautiful. Her attitude toward
the young Greek’s enthusiasm was a little mocking, but he never noticed
this. On the whole Sisi found him entertaining as he was not at all
mundane, so she contemplated taking him with her on one of her longer
journeys.
In July, Sisi spent some time with the Emperor Franz Josef at Gastein,
where she took pains to conceal her melancholy and once more proved a
pleasant and agreeable companion. At the same time she made long
excursions into the mountains with the Countess Janka Mikes, during
which she would spend the night sleeping on hay in Alpine huts. She
showed some consideration for her maid-of-honor, however, as she had
heard it was being said that she had half-killed Marie Festetics.
At Gastein the Empress lived in the Helenenburg. Her amiability was
a comfort to Franz Josef and he was extremely grateful to her for the
understanding view that she took of his weakness for Frau Schratt.
“My impossibly beloved angel,” he wrote to her shortly after his
departure, “I am in a melancholy mood with an aching heart and a
feeling of homesickness for Gastein. Yesterday, as I drove down the hill
below the Johannespromenade and looking sadly and longingly back at
the Helenenburg, I thought I recognized your white parasol on the
balcony and my eyes filled with tears. Once again my warmest thanks

343
for your love and goodness during my stay at Gastein. It is seldom now
that I pass such happy days.” When Sisi replied that he was right in
thinking he had seen her, he replied, “The certainty that after our parting
at Gastein you really did wave your white parasol to me makes me very
happy and I am deeply touched and grateful.”
But no sooner was Sisi alone again than she relapsed into her
melancholy moods.

Now, however, she heard that her daughter was expecting a child.
Valerie’s letters bubbled over with joy at the prospect of this happy
event, but the answers she received were always in the same mournful
vein.
“The birth of another human being always seems to me a
misfortune,” wrote the Empress. “I feel the burden of life so heavily that
it is often like a physical pain and I would far rather be dead.”
Valerie was unhappy that her mother should doubt God’s mercy and
for a moment had the idea of sacrificing her child in order that this noble
and richly-endowed soul should not be lost to the Lord. ‘May He take it,’
she thought to herself, ‘and in return for this save my mother’s soul.’ But
then again she repented, as she felt that, in the depths of her heart, Sisi
had never honestly meant it, so she prayed that, after all, God would
spare the child.
Soon Sisi began to feel unsettled again and moved restlessly about
from Gastein to Feldafing, and from there to Miramar and Corfu. But she
wanted to go still further afield. She consulted the eccentric Archduke
Ludwig Salvator, who was a great traveler, on the subject of Tasmania,
which the English praised so highly, and he too described it in glowing
terms. But the suggestion of a voyage across the ocean, or even a trip to
America, about which Sisi had often dropped hints to her husband, had
always fallen on deaf ears before, in spite of the Emperor’s tendency to
grant her every other wish.
On arriving in Corfu, Sisi went straight to her new palace in Homer’s
“far-gazing spot.” The most beautiful thing about her new home was its
situation. The palace itself was a not very successful blend of the
classical and Pompeian styles with the comfort and dubious taste of the
day. Much of its contents – for example the furniture in the ancient
Roman style, surrounded by stucco reliefs of Cupids and glass fruit
glittering with colored electric light – produced a tasteless and

344
pretentious effect. The cost had been enormous, but with his usual
chivalrous generosity, Franz Josef had given orders that any part of the
building expenses that were not covered by the Empress’s current
income were to be charged to his private purse.
Statues were now being set up embodying the ideal of human beauty
adored by Sisi, especially one of the dying Achilles, while on the wall of
the staircase hung Professor Matsch’s gigantic and effective painting of
Achilles Triumphant. As feminine accompaniments to these there was a
copy of Canova’s so-called ‘Third Dancer,’ supposed to represent the
Princess Pauline Borghese, Napoléon’s favorite sister, with her exquisite
figure. In addition to these, Sisi proposed to erect everlasting monuments
in the ‘Achilleion’ to Heine and her son, the two poles upon which her
life revolved.
In a letter to Ida Ferenczy dated from Corfu on November 26, 1891,
Baron Nopcsa described the whole “fairy palace” as most beautiful and
unique. Sisi was pleased with her new home, too, as every little detail
was original. Everything in the Achilleion was to be dedicated to the
dolphin, the sacred creature under whose form Neptune, the god of the
sea, had disguised himself. So the dolphin, surmounted by the Austrian
Imperial crown, appeared on everything used in the house, whether
china, glass, linen, or writing paper.
It was all beautiful and yet she did not feel well or contented. She was
tortured by sciatica again and could not settle down. Although she did
not take much exercise now, she swam in the sea every morning and
afternoon, and in the evening was packed in sheets soaked in seawater to
prevent her from getting fat, which, the Countess Festetics wrote, was
bad for her nerves and spirits.
A life-sized statue of Heine was brought from Rome and solemnly set
up in a little open temple. It represents Heine seated wearily in a chair,
with a sheet of paper in his drooping hand on which are inscribed the
famous verses of ‘Was will die einsame Träne?’ which can roughly be
translated as follows.

What means this tear so lonely?

It dims my vision so
Still in my eyes it lingered
From days of long ago.
Thou tear so old and lonely

345
 Flow down like all the rest.

The erection of this monument was intended to mark Sisi’s contempt

for the world which, for political reasons, had denied the poet such
honors. Yet even in this earthly paradise, where everything was arranged
to suit her own ideas, Sisi was as restless as ever. And so, in November,
the palace in Corfu was deserted and the yacht Miramar sailed for Egypt.
Here the Empress spent nearly three weeks at Shepherd’s Hotel in Cairo
and, as soon as her sciatica was relieved by the hot climate, began her
endless walks again.
The Austrian representative in Cairo, Herr von Heidler, was
absolutely amazed. “Her Majesty’s pedestrian feats are so marvelous,”
he reported to Count Kálnoky on November 23, 1891, “that the secret
police said it was intolerable to have to follow the all-highest lady except
in carriages.”
From Egypt, the Empress returned to Vienna, where Franz Josef was
pleased to discuss with her the political complications caused by Count
Taaffe’s policy of playing off the Slavs and Germans against each other.
She stood so entirely outside of politics that she was often able to judge
matters calmly and in a detached spirit.
Once the Emperor came in just as Sisi was about to start her Greek
lesson with Christomanos, who had resumed his service in December
1891. The Emperor spoke Magyar so that the tutor would not be able to
understand him, and when he had gone, Sisi remarked, “I have just been
discussing politics with the Emperor. I wish I had been able to help, but I
have too low an opinion of such things. Politicians always think that they
are directing events, while in reality events always catch them by
surprise.”
The disabled Greek student with the almost uncannily clever face and
burning eyes was a source of amusement to the Empress. She liked to see
his startled expression when she made fun of herself, as for instance on
one occasion when she asked whether he thought she still seemed
imperial while her masseuse was kneading her. She was fond of laughing
at herself and equally fond of poking quiet fun at the student, with his
love of scent and his overly elegant clothes, who seemed spellbound in
her presence. Everything about him seemed calculated for effect, but he
was widely read and stimulating on account of his general culture and his
almost feminine appreciation of fabric, colors and flowers.

346
 On January 26, 1892, the Empress heard that her mother had died
very suddenly of inflammation of the lungs at the age of eighty-four. On
the following day Valerie safely delivered a little daughter, who was of
course baptized Elisabeth, but called Ella for short. Agitated by these
conflicting emotions, Sisi left hurriedly for Corfu, where she took
frequent walks with the unfortunate Christomanos, whose deformity
made them a severe ordeal. Some of their conversations are recorded in
his diary.
“If one is to come to terms with life,” she said to him once, “one must
ultimately retire to an island, as it is always people who spoil things.
Only where things are left alone does eternal beauty survive. Just think
that in a hundred years’ time not a single person belonging to our age
will still be alive, not one, and probably not a single royal throne either –
a constant succession of new people, new poppies, new waves. They are
us; we are no more than they are. The first time I came to Corfu, I often
visited the Villa Braila. It was superb because it was quite deserted
among its great trees. That attracted me so much that I had it made into
the Achilleion ... And now I quite regret it. Our dreams are always better
when they are not realized.”
But the Empress wearied of people as quickly as she did of other
things, and in time she came to consider Christomanos’s rather
overwrought ways and dreamy unworldliness as oppressive “as a
relaxing south wind.” At the end of April, 1892, a new tutor arrived from
Alexandria, a Mr. Frederick Barker, who was half-Greek and half-
English, although he didn’t replace Christomanos immediately. Absorbed
in her Greek studies, the Empress seldom troubled her maid-of-honor,
the Countess Mikes, although she would feel compelled now and then to
talk frankly with one of her ladies, and at such times the Countess
recorded in her diary that it was incredible how outspoken she could be.
“Poor lady!” wrote the Countess, “I do not think anyone on earth feels so
unhappy and misunderstood, but nobody can do anything about it now.”
After another short expedition to Athens, the Empress returned home
at the beginning of May and went on a visit to her daughter at
Lichtenegg. But although the sight of Valerie’s happy home life
delighted her, she confessed that, since the death of her mother had
broken the last link between her and her youth, even joy now gave her
pain.

347
 In June the Empress went to Karlsbad for the cure and could be seen
walking for hours in the woods with her white sunshade and fan until
Christomanos could hardly drag himself after her. Since she ate nothing
on these walks, on one occasion even she had a fit of giddiness, and a
few days later she fainted while her hair was being dressed, upon which
the Countess Festetics told her plainly that, if she went on as she was,
she would have a stroke.
This impressed Sisi for a time, but soon she returned to her old ways
again. “Her Majesty looks so ill,” wrote the Countess Festetics, “that it
goes to one’s heart … She is obsessed with the idea that she is getting
stout. I believe that if I did not insist so often, she would long since have
died of starvation. Yet with it all she is unbelievably gentle and kind.”
From Karlsbad, Sisi went on to Bavaria and Switzerland, where she
climbed the Rigi and visited Zurich, Rigi Kaltbad and Lucerne, spending
the whole day on her feet, whether she was exploring the countryside or
wandering around the streets of the cities, as she did for nine-and-a-half
hours in Lucerne on September 6.
“Her Majesty is in excellent spirits,” wrote Baron Nopcsa to Ida
Ferenczy on September 1, 1891, “and races about even more in
consequence.” Barker now took the place of Christomanos, being
younger and better able to stand the strain.
Franz Josef wrote to his wife every other day, and it is touching to see
how exactly he kept her informed of everything that was important,
although she was so indifferent to politics that the Indépendance belge
actually printed a story alleging that on September 16, Kossuth’s
ninetieth birthday, the Empress caused a Mass to be said and sent him
her greetings. The report was contradicted at once, but this did not
prevent many people in Hungary from believing it.
At the end of September the Empress went straight from Switzerland
to Gödöllö, where she spent the beautiful fall quietly, although she
grieved to see how the last remnants of the hunting stables were now
being disposed of. But a political demonstration in Budapest caused the
Court to move from Gödöllö to Vienna, where the Russian Tsaravich
arrived on a visit in November. As a special courtesy to him, the
Empress was induced to appear at dinner, although until this was
explained to him, the Tsaravich hardly realized what an event the
presence of his hostess was.

348
 The relationship between Sisi and Franz Josef was very amicable at
this time, and when she left for the south, Nopcsa wrote to Ida Ferenczy
that she felt the parting almost more deeply than she had ever done
before. This time she meant to escape the cold by going to Spain,
touching in first at Sicily and the Balearic Islands.
“I can quite understand,” wrote Marie Festetics to Ida Ferenczy from
Messina, “that anybody should want to go in search of warmth, but it is a
peculiar taste to spend three months on board ship in the winter. As for
where we are going, not even Her Majesty really knows that.” Even
Franz Josef had to wait uneasily for a telegram to inform him that the
Empress had safely arrived somewhere.
Once again Sisi celebrated her birthday on Christmas Eve away from
home. “Today,” wrote Franz Josef, “I want to send you my most heartfelt
wishes, together with a petition that you will be as kind and sweet to me
in the future that is in store for us – which may be only a short one – as
you have been increasingly up to the present. And I should like, too, to
put into words what I cannot do enough to show you – as it would bore
you if I were always trying to show it – how enormously fond of you I
am. May God bless and protect you and send us a happy reunion. We
have nothing more left to desire or hope for.” The letter is signed “Your
little one” again, which had been less prevalent during recent years.
But although the Emperor and Empress were on such excellent terms,
growing discontent was felt within the Monarchy at Sisi’s incessant
absences and neglect of all her duties, and the ambassadors of foreign
powers referred to this sentiment in their dispatches. But Sisi had long
ceased to care what people said about her. She spent Christmas Eve
visiting every hole and corner of Valencia, afterwards going on to
Malaga and Granada, where she admired the Alhambra. Here she
received an invitation from the Queen Regent of Spain to visit her at
Aranjuez, but declined it on the pretext of her sciatica, giving offence in
Madrid where it was considered that the reports of the Empress’s travels
and long walks were hard to reconcile with all this talk about her health.
Passing through Seville and Cadiz, she returned to Gibraltar. “Such a
nice, congenial place,” she wrote to Valerie on January 23, 1893. “I like
it better than anything in the whole of Spain, chiefly because it is English
and everything in the town is so clean … There are some most amusing
shops here kept by Black people. I visit one every day, so it is only
thanks to Marie Festetics that I am not now lying in a debtors’ prison.

349
But she is so good at bargaining that we get things fabulously cheap.”
This was the Empress’s latest craze. “Her Majesty is buying such
quantities of miscellaneous objects,” lamented Nopcsa to Ida Ferenczy,
“that the ship is already full of them.”
The erratic journey went on, past Majorca to Barcelona, then on to
the Riviera, and afterwards to Turin, where news was received that the
Archduchess Valerie had had a son, which delighted Sisi as much as it
did Franz Josef.
“I do not know why,” wrote the Emperor on February 18, 1893, “but I
cannot help thinking of Rudolf. It is a poor substitute, but still a
substitute of a sort.”
From Italy, the Empress decided to make an expedition to Geneva
and Territet, and begged her husband to allow himself a little relaxation
for once and pay her a visit in beautiful Switzerland. She had a bad
conscience at having left the Emperor alone for so long, and was always
asking Ida von Ferenczy to take an interest in her husband and the little
things that pleased him. Frau von Ferenczy would often arrange little
lunches for him with special sorts of sausages, pork and delicious bread
from her native Hungarian plains, of which the Emperor was particularly
fond. Yet when the Empress and Frau Schratt were away at the same
time, Franz Josef became quite melancholy and this was reflected in all
his letters.
At Territet, Sisi took her usual tremendous walks. Baron Nopcsa was
now seventy-eight and found it more and more difficult to stand being
constantly on the move, while Marie Festetics had a bad attack of catarrh
and had to take a rest, so it was fortunate that Franz Josef arrived on a
visit at this moment.
The whole world was astounded to see the Emperor traveling to
Switzerland, which was known to be a haunt of Nihilists and Socialists,
and ingenious journalists tried to explain it by saying that the Empress
had lost her reason and believed that Franz Josef had shot himself, too,
so that she had tried to throw herself into the lake. And the Greek Barker,
who, they said, was no more or less than a clever nerve specialist from
Athens, had declared it necessary to prove to her that her husband was
still alive.
The Secolo of Milan for March 16, 1893, which retailed all these
fables, even added that the Empress could no longer bear the Achilleion
and was afraid to go back there because she believed that the famous

350
Macedonian bandit Athanasio intended to descend upon the place, take
her prisoner, and hold her to ransom for an enormous sum. These wild
tales in the Italian press caused anxiety at home and the Magyar Hirlap
for March 11, 1893, complained that nobody in Hungary ever heard a
word about their Queen.
In spite of these reports, however, Sisi’s state of mind had improved.
During the Emperor’s visit she behaved with a little more restraint, but to
her genuine regret he soon had to leave again. Marie Festetics was in
ecstasies over the Emperor’s graciousness and touching kindness, but
observed once more that the Empress’s charm enabled her to “put the
Emperor completely in her pocket.”
He had hardly gone before Sisi moved on to Lake Como, and then by
way of Milan and Genoa to Naples, where she plucked up courage to
confess to Franz Josef by letter something that the newspapers had
already anticipated. Although the Achilleion had only just been
completed, she now told him that she took no further pleasure in it. What
she had said in the past was still true. “Wherever I might happen to be, if
anyone were to tell me that I had got to stay there forever, even Paradise
would become a hell to me," and the Achilleion had now become an
obstacle to her restless spirit. She accordingly wrote to the Emperor that
she would like to sell the villa as Valerie would be able to put the money
to a better use now that her family was increasing so rapidly. Visions of a
fantastically rich American floated before her eyes, someone who would
pay a fabulous sum for a fairy palace. For some time Franz Josef had
noticed that the Empress no longer took any pleasure in the Achilleion,
but he had hardly expected this and suggested that she think the matter
over again.
“Even without the sale of your house,” he wrote on April 6, 1893,
“Valerie and her probably numerous children will not starve … The
matter, in any case, would have to be approached with great caution and
tact if a reasonably decent face is to be put upon it, and even then people
will raise a kerfuffle over it … Your intention has its sad side for me, too.
I have cherished a secret hope that after building the Gasturi with so
much pleasure and zest, you would remain quietly in the place that is
your own creation for at least the greater part of the time that you
unfortunately spend in the south. Now even that is to come to nothing,
and you will only go on traveling and roaming around the world.”

351
 The Empress therefore delayed her final decision for a time but did
not let go of the idea.
In May, Sisi returned to Lainz for the betrothal of her granddaughter
Augusta, daughter of the Archduchess Gisela, to Archduke Josef August,
and at the end of the month held a Court again after a long interval. The
German Ambassador, Prince Reins, did not think she was looking well,
saying she had aged greatly, but he hoped that her appearance in public
might silence the rumors of her mental derangement which could no
longer be silenced. Comparisons were being drawn between her and the
unfortunate King Otto, now hopelessly insane, but those closest to her
read her character more accurately.
“She must be measured by a different standard from that applied to
other people,” wrote the Countess Janka Mikes, who went with her to
Gastein in July. While the Archduchess Valerie, who visited her there,
noted that “there are in Mamma perhaps the greatest contrasts that could
possibly be combined in the same character.”
When the faithful Ida Ferenczy drew Sisi’s attention to the reports
that were going the rounds about her mental condition, she was eager to
prove how false they were. But the gossip about her made her all the
keener to go far away. “I am now preparing myself to become a great-
grandmother,” she said to the German Ambassador, “and then perhaps
people will allow me to retire from the world for good.”
This time she meant to take Christomanos with her on her travels
again. Nopcsa’s place was now taken by Major-General Adam von
Berzeviczy, who had a great reputation in the army for horsemanship. In
the year 1863 he had made a bet that he would take his half-trained
charger over all the eight obstacles in the army riding school with his
back to the horse’s head. He was to be allowed one fall, but even this did
not prove necessary, and the smart hussar officer won his bet without
falling once. This story had gained the greatest admiration from Sisi;
besides which he had a dry, wholesome humor and a military terseness
of expression, and did not mince his words even in speaking to her. This
Sisi particularly appreciated. She laughed heartily at his homely
Viennese expressions and imperturbable manner when, for instance, on
hearing that he was to accompany her on board the notorious Greif, he
only replied, “I am always sick on that old swing.”
Sisi bade a sad farewell from the Emperor, the Archduchess Valerie
and Frau Schratt, “the only three roots binding me to earth,” as she

352
remarked to the Countess Mikes, and on December 1 sailed from
Miramar for Algiers. Franz Josef found the parting hard, too. “I am only
slowly growing accustomed to my loneliness,” he wrote. “What I miss so
much are the moments I spent with you during your breakfast and our
evenings together. I have already been twice into your rooms on my way
to the Bellaria, and although all the furniture is covered up, everything
reminded me so mournfully of you.”
On arriving in Algiers, Sisi wrote to the Archduchess Valerie,
“Military order now prevails among us as Berzeviczy is most intelligent
and useful.”
They went on as far as Madeira, where Sisi thought sadly of her
former visit thirty-two years earlier when she had first gone out into the
wide world as a young and lovely woman, disillusioned and burdened
with care.
She received affectionate letters from the Emperor at Christmas and
the New Year. “With all true love, I wish you happiness and the blessing
of Heaven,” he wrote, “and I beg you still to show me the same kindness
and consideration in the future. Happiness is hardly the right word for us.
We should be satisfied with a little peace, a good understanding between
us, and fewer misfortunes than we have had hitherto. Show consideration
for my age during the coming year, too, and my increasing idiocy. Your
kindness and solicitude, and the friendship of die Freundin, are the only
bright spots in my life. I think of you continually with boundless longing
and am already beginning to look forward to our next meeting which is,
alas! still so far away.”
Sisi spent her time in Madeira taking long walks, sometimes with her
Greek master, and sometimes with the Countess Janka Mikes.
Christornanos was becoming too conceited and self-important, and could
not get on with any of her party. There was a scene between him and the
officers of the Greif, and everybody was glad that the Empress did not
intend to keep him later than the month of March. She continued to study
and translate with him regularly, but often felt impatient with the
“spiritual veneration” that the young man professed for her.”
Sisi would have liked to visit the Azores, but renounced this scheme
as the Greif was barely seaworthy enough, besides being difficult to
navigate. On one occasion the boat ran aground on a flat, sandy coast,
and had to wait until she was floated off again by the high tide.

353
 She touched in at Alicante, where the Archduke Ludwig Salvator was
waiting to meet the Empress. He came on board, as usual, with tousled
hair, wearing the same seedy-looking suit that he had had for years, but
he was an interesting, widely-read man who had seen and learned a great
deal in the course of his life, and was a striking exception to the general
run of Princes. This pleased the Empress and she truly liked him.
From Alicante, Sisi went on to Cap Martin, where her husband met
her. She was in comparatively good spirits and went for many walks with
Franz Josef, but did not appear at table as her meals were most irregular
and her diet extraordinary. The Emperor was in a state of helpless
amazement when he heard that Sisi would often eat a violet-flavored ice
with oranges instead of a proper meal.
On March 15, he had to return to work, but the Empress remained
behind, and was therefore unable to avoid Napoléon III’s widow who
was also staying at Cap Martin. The Empress Eugénie’s companionship
was not very good for Sisi as Eugénie, too, was a most unhappy woman
whose life was spent mourning for her husband, her son, her rank, and all
that had once filled her life. She was, however, better balanced than Sisi
and had managed to achieve some degree of peace of mind.
Sisi liked at times to pay surprise visits to private gardens that
particularly attracted her. This soon became known in Nice and its
surroundings, but occasionally she was not recognized, and once there
was an unpleasant encounter with the indignant owner of a villa, upon
which Franz Josef observed that he was only thankful “the old hag did
not give you a thrashing,” although, he added, it might come to that yet
as going into people’s houses like that really was not done.
The summer of 1894 was occupied by visits to Bavaria and Southern
Tyrol. At Madonna di Campiglio, Sisi heard of the assassination of
President Carnot, which Franz Josef begged her to regard as a lesson that
it was not quite so easy as imagined to go around safe and unmolested.
Her own fears, however, were not for herself but for the Emperor, and
she continued her travels with the utmost unconcern.
After a visit to Corfu, she went to Gödöllö, but even in Hungary her
vacation failed to revive her now as she was conscious of having
alienated not merely Court society but also the people at large. She
attended only the largest Court functions, and those only with an effort,
and put them off as long as possible. She was glad when, on December
2, 1894, she could once more set sail from Trieste for Algiers in the

354
Miramar. This time she was attended by the Countess Irma Sztáray as a
temporary maid-of-honor. What surprised Countess Sztáray most were
the Empress’s fads on the subject of diet as she was always worrying
about her weight, which varied between seven stone four and seven stone
twelve (102 to 110 pounds), and had “milk days” or “orange days,” quite
in the present-day fashion, on which she would eat no other food,
although when she felt inclined, she would eat quite a good dinner. Every
day after her gymnastics she would consult the scales and set her diet
accordingly.
Although she was now in her fifty-sixth year, dieting and exercise had
kept her incredibly supple. To prove this to the Countess Sztáray, on one
of their excursions, when no else was near, she suddenly went through a
complicated exercise that would have done credit to any professional
gymnast. She was now a great-grandmother, as on January 4, 1895,
Archduchess Gisela’s eldest daughter Elisabeth (who on December 2,
1893, had married Otto, Baron, and afterwards Count Seefried), had a
little daughter.
A new Greek master, Pali, soon incurred Sisi’s contempt because he
was unable to endure hardship. “Yesterday,” she wrote from Algiers to
the Archduchess Valerie on January 10, 1895, “I went for another walk
with Pali but soon returned home as he is so weak. These Greeks are
such milquetoasts. He is now trembling at the prospect of the voyage and
saying it would be better to stay here until the wind drops.”
As a pleasant surprise for Franz Josef at Christmas, Sisi had
commissioned the painter Franz Matsch to paint a miniature in oils and a
three-quarter-length life-size portrait of Katharina Schratt as Frau
Wahrheit in Hans Sach’s ‘Frau Wahrheit will niemand herbergen’
[Nobody will entertain Mistress Truth]. The Emperor was touched at his
wife’s kind thought, but added in his reply, “I am only depressed by the
thought of the gnawing hunger that you punish by fasting, instead of
appeasing it as other sensible people do. But the case is beyond all
remedy, so we will pass over it in silence.”
Now that the Empress lived so much on milk, she insisted that it must
be the purest that could be obtained, and in order to ensure this, special
cows were bought for her and in due time sent home, where Ida Ferenczy
was instructed to set up a model dairy. The extraordinary diet that Sisi
followed naturally had an influence on her general health. Just as she had
suffered from sciatica in earlier days as the result of her excessive walks

355
in the wind and rain, so she now began to suffer from digestive disorders
as a result of her unbalanced diet. She was always trying new cures,
usually with so little moderation that they did her constitution more harm
than good, until Franz Josef remarked to Valerie, “These incessant cures
are really terrible.”
About that time Queen Victoria was expected at Cap Martin. “It is
said,” wrote Sisi to Valerie, “that the English Queen has taken the whole
hotel … and two villas as well, as she is bringing seventy people, among
them a number of Indians … It must be a great pleasure to travel like a
circus.”
In February Franz Josef again visited his wife at Cap Martin and tried
in vain to persuade her to adopt a more normal diet. On his departure Sisi
at once left the sunny Riviera and sailed for Corsica, where terrible
snowstorms awaited her. Franz Josef could never understand why the
Empress did not remain quietly on the Riviera instead of roaming around
the world in all weathers, but nothing could be done about it.
On resuming her journey to Corfu, she found that it had not lost its
old power to charm her.
“We have just had two fabulously lovely days,” she wrote ecstatically
to Valerie on April 8, 1895. “Everything was so beautiful that it was
almost unnatural. The scent of the olive trees was so strong in the
evening and the setting sun surrounded them with an aureole like golden
roses. The sea was like a great sheet of pale blue glass on which the little
ships with their white and rose-pink sails floated as if motionless. The
hillsides are covered with golden blossom, and beyond are the Albanian
mountains, still with their covering of snow, which turn first rosy pink,
then gradually begin to blaze with a ruby glow, while everything is
pervaded by a heady perfume. Countless swallows swoop to and fro as
though drunk with ecstasy, and above all this glory, the silvery moon,
almost at the full, floats overhead in a deep blue sky. Achilles turns up
toward it, his face as pale as death, and his eyes fall as he gazes on all the
splendor. It was too lovely – in fact it made me so nervous that I could
not sleep after seeing it. I lay gazing out from my bed into my moonlit
room and listened to the mournful note of the owls.”
On April 22, 1895, Sisi had the statue of her son by the Italian
sculptor Chiattone set up in the midst of all this loveliness. When it was
unveiled she remained silent, absorbed in tearful contemplation of his
face. Her emotion was so violent that on the following day she simply

356
fled from Corfu and sailed for Venice, quite unaware of the fact that
Their Italian Majesties were there. She had therefore to call upon them
and was received by them in the very rooms that she had once occupied
when Venice was still under Austrian rule.
Then she went on to Lainz for a month, and after that to Bártfa, a spa
in the Carpathians surrounded by magnificent forests in which she could
enjoy the seclusion that she craved more than anything on earth. She had
recourse more than ever to the protection of her inevitable sunshade and
fan, but those who managed to see her face felt a pang of heartache as it
was scored with deep wrinkles. The sun, wind and rain had left their
marks on it. Still, her eyes had retained all their pristine fire and her tall,
proud, slender figure and incomparable gait remained unaltered.
When, on August 6, Carmen Sylva visited Ischl with her consort and
tactfully inquired whether she still rebelled against fate, the Empress
replied, “No, I have turned to stone.”
In September 1895, her travels began once more, first to Aix-les-
Bains for the cure, then on to Geneva and Territet, then back to Gödöllö
and Vienna for the month of October, and then, at the end of November,
to the Riviera, this time attended by the Countess Sztáray as the young
Countess Mikes was about to be married. The Empress was now
drinking Karlsbad water as she considered her-weight of not much over
seven stone twelve (110 pounds) excessive. Franz Josef was quite
justified in writing to her on December 14, 1895, “I am happy to hear
that your constitution, which is so excellent, still triumphs over all your
slimming treatments and the racing around in which you indulge to
excess.”
Early in March Sisi felt unusually unwell and at once attributed this
to her weight. “When I am not feeling well,” she wrote to Valerie, “my
weight goes up, and of all my ills this upsets me the most.”
It was quite dangerous to mention any new cure to her as she was
immediately determined to try it. At that time everybody was reading a
book by a doctor called Kuhne, who recommended a sand cure as a
means of reducing weight. Sisi insisted on giving it a go at once, as did
Frau Schratt, on whom the Empress’s continual cures had made quite an
impression.
“It is extraordinary,” wrote Franz Josef to Sisi, “how you two are
always making the same medical experiments, although without being
particularly harmed by them, thank God.”

357
 The spring was spent mostly in Corfu, where Sisi spent much of her
time translating Shakespeare into Greek, a task in which she was assisted
by a new master who was quite a dandy and whose habit of scenting
himself – something that she had always disliked, even in women – got
on her nerves. But her stay in Corfu was broken off at the end of April as
Hungary was about to celebrate a thousand years of its existence as a
state and Sisi did not want to miss this.

On April 30 she arrived in Budapest and on May 2 accompanied the

Emperor to the opening of the thousand year exhibition, at which they
were received with enormous applause. She appeared in deep black,
although her dress had fashionable puffed sleeves. Everybody was eager
to see the Queen about whom such contradictory reports had recently
been heard, but Sisi hid her face behind her fan both during the drive to
the Exhibition and during the opening ceremony.
She was moved as she listened to the Cardinal Prince Primate’s words
at the ‘Te Deum’ in the Coronation Church, when he spoke of the
nation’s boundless love and gratitude to her. But everybody in the
Hungarian capital remarked on the heartrendingly sad impression made
by the Empress’s black-robed figure amid these spring festivities.
The most painful thing for Sisi was the way in which these festivities
recalled the vanished past. “The opening ceremony,” she wrote to her
daughter from Buda on April 3, 1896, “was very sad. To think of
appearing again amid all that splendor and pomp! The last celebrations
of this sort at which I was present were those at the unveiling of the
Maria Theresa monument, with Nazi [as Rudolf was called at home].
The whole thing brings back that day to me. The singing, the national
anthem, it was all exactly the same.”
On returning to Schönbrunn, Sisi often went for walks with Frau
Schratt, whom she still found congenial, pleasant and amiable now that
her embarrassment in the Empress’s presence had disappeared and been
replaced by a simpler and more natural relationship. Next, the Empress
went to Budapest for the opening of the new wing of the Royal palace on
June 6, the building of which she had so warmly promoted. On June 8,
the Coronation insignia were borne in solemn procession from the
Coronation Church to the Parliament House and the Royal palace, after
which there was a state reception of the Hungarian Parliament, finely
described by Kálmán Mikszáth in the Pesti Hirlap for June 10, 1896.

358
There she sat in the throne-room of the Royal palace in
her Hungarian costume of black, adorned with lace.
Everything about her was somber. From her dark hair
fell a veil of black. Black were the ornaments in her hair,
black her pearls, everything black, only her face was
marble-white and ineffably sad … a Mater dolorosa
[grieving mother]. It was the same face as of old, well
known from her bewitching portraits; the free, noble
features, with the hair cut short in front and waving
around her brow like a silken fringe, and above this her
luxuriant braids, the loveliest of all crowns. She was still
herself; but sorrow had left its mark upon her face. The
picture was still the same, but as though shrouded in
mist. The lashes drooped over her sweet eyes, so full of
life. Still and impassive she sat, as though seeing and
hearing nothing. Only her soul seemed to range far and
wide. Not a movement, not a glance to betray her
interest. She sat like a statue of marble pallor.

And now the Head of the Parliament, Desider Szilágyi,

began to speak slowly and cautiously, full of reverence
for the throne. The King listened. A word, an idea riveted
his attention, and his eyes rested upon the face of the
Hungarian nation’s great orator. Still nothing could be
read in the face of Elisabeth. It remained pale and
impassive. But now the orator pronounced the name of
the Queen. She did not move an eyelid, until suddenly a
cheer broke out such as the Royal palace at Buda had
never heard before, as though a storm of emotion burst
from every heart with a ring of wondrous sublimity that
can be neither described nor told. In it mingled
supplication, the tone of bells, the roar of the sea,
tenderness, emotion, perhaps even the fragrance of
flowers.

And now that majestic head, until now unmoved, was

seen to stir. Gently, almost imperceptibly, it bowed in

359
 gratitude. A wondrous grace was in this gesture. Louder
still rang the cheers, and for minutes they refused to be
silent. As roar after roar went up, the vaulted roof
quivered.

The magnates of the realm waved their hats. Still the

cheering would not abate. The orator was forced to
pause and the Queen inclined her head. Her snow-white
cheek showed a faint flush. Its milky whiteness was
tinged with pale rose, then a crimson wave surged up,
flooding it with a living red. As though by magic, a
Queen appeared in all the hues of life seated at the side
of the King. Her eyes dilated and flashed with their
former splendor. Those eyes, whose captivating smile had
once had power to console a sorrowing land, now filled
with tears. Once more the current of sympathy flowed
back and forth, the land now happy it had succeeded in
consoling its Queen, if only for a moment. Majestically
she raised her lace handkerchief to her eyes to dry her
tears. The orator resumed his speech. Slowly the flush of
life faded from the Queen’s countenance, and soon by the
King’s side there sat once more the woman shrouded in
mourning, the Mater dolorosa.

Sisi, too, was overcome by the emotions of this sacred moment. She
divined this to be no ordinary homage, and for a moment her feeling that
every Hungarian was conscious of her sympathy for his country broke
down the wall of gloom that she had set up between herself and the rest
of the world. But the emotion was too much for her. She immediately
withdrew to the seclusion of the villa at Lainz and nothing more was
heard of her in public for weeks to come.
Sisi now proceeded to make a new will, as the one that she had made
before the death of the Crown Prince had embodied her original
intention, which was to leave her whole estate to Valerie. She now
divided her property into five parts and bequeathed a fifth to each of her
daughters Gisela and Valerie, and a fifth to her granddaughter Elisabeth,
the daughter of the Crown Prince. Pensions and jewels were allotted to
all those who had served her faithfully. Nor was Katharina Schratt

360
forgotten; she was left a large gold coin (a “Georgstaler”) mounted as a
brooch, while the Empress Frederick, the only foreign Royal to be
remembered in the will, was left a silver horseshoe with a golden St.
George.
Sisi proceeded to arrange for the disposal of her great secret, her
writings. Ida Ferenczy was instructed to hand over the casket containing
her poems to the Duke Karl Theodor. By Sisi’s express order, everything
was sealed with her private seal that bore the device of a seagull.
Sisi had next to violate her desire for privacy by receiving the Tsar
and Tsaritsa of Russia, shortly after which she retired to Ischl where she
once more withdrew into absolute seclusion and began to diet again, this
time eating hardly anything but milk and eggs. Her weight was now
about seven stone four (102 pounds), which was little enough for a
woman of about five feet six inches in height. Yet such was her terror of
growing fat that she would take frequent steam baths, immediately
followed by a very cold plunge bath. This treatment was bad for her
nerves and made her anemic, which led to a fresh bout of cures, and so
the vicious circle continued.
Valerie’s family was still growing and Sisi thought about how she
might secure the children’s future. Long before this, Ida Ferenczy, her
faithful woman of affairs, had persuaded Sisi to accumulate a sum that
would assure her an independent fortune. She had followed this advice
with the result that, by October 1896, she was in possession of a sum in
cash of a nominal value of 3,873,510 gulden, although its actual value
amounted to 4,483,991 gulden.
No sooner did the first signs of the cold season appear than the
Empress grew impatient for the day when she would start her yearly
winter travels. Early in December 1896 she started in Biarritz, where she
spent most of her time on the shore. On the whole the weather was bad.
“Nobody has any conception,” she wrote, “of how grand the sea is here,
but with these gales it is hardly possible to walk … The wind and sea
roar all night long until one’s head is quite dazed.”
Franz Josef now heard very distressing accounts of his wife’s health.
She now ate no meat at all, only the juice of half-raw steak, so he sent his
own physician, Dr. Kerzl, to Biarritz to see what was really going on. Dr.
Kerzl was horrified when he heard of the Karlsbad cure that she had
adopted on her own authority, and prescribed more food and a little wine.
His report to the Emperor was accompanied by a request that His

361
Majesty should bring pressure to bear upon his consort to follow his
medical advice, with the result that on December 15 and 17, 1896, Franz
Josef wrote to her as follows. “I had hoped that the bad, stormy weather
would have disabused you of Biarritz and brought you to Cap Martin
before long, but you have got yourself into such a desolate state of mind
by now, and are increasingly encouraging yourself in it by listening to
the roaring of the sea and the howling of the storm … I fear you will
refuse to follow Kerzl’s advice, and continue to do all you can to
undermine your own health until it is too late and nobody can help you
anymore. I am unfortunately powerless to do more than beg you, out of
pity for me and Valerie, to take good care of yourself and live as Kerzl
advises you to do, and, above all, to eat.”
The doctor succeeded in frightening the Sisi a little, and for a time
she followed his advice and stopped her exhausting walks. Her spirits
immediately showed an improvement, as was noted by the Baroness
Marie Sennyey, who was in attendance on her. But she was still haunted
by the same obsession over her weight. She would weigh herself three
times a day, which annoyed Dr. Kerzl. “If it were not for those damned
scales!” he said. "Devil take the man who advised Her Majesty to weigh
herself all the time!”
But the improvement in her spirits was only temporary and before
long her letters to the Emperor revealed the same melancholy as before.
“You should not let yourself become so absorbed in your moods of
depression,” he wrote in January 1897, “or shut yourself away from
other people so much. It will only make it more and more difficult for
you to tear yourself away from your solitary life. The Greek tutor and
Baroness Sennyey would surely be pleasant and cheerful company.”
After the storms of Biarritz, Sisi enjoyed the Riviera, where she
arrived on January 19, 1897, and she would have been very glad if the
Emperor could have met her there.
“Could you not get here for four weeks this year?” she wrote. “It
would be so good for my health and spirits. Look at how long other
rulers stay away from home … I hope that our friend received my New
Year’s telegram, although the number of her house was not on it. Please
send me her numbers in the Nibelungengasse and the Gloriettegasse and
that of the Villa Felizitas, and I will put my money on them at the
Casino.”

362
 Even in Cap Martin Sisi’s spirits responded to every fluctuation in her
physical condition. She continued to treat herself, this time with sulfur
and iron pills. She had to live without studying Greek for a time and
began to lead a completely solitary life. The Emperor was so perturbed
that he sent not only his own physician but also the Archduke Franz
Salvator and his wife on a visit to her. Valerie found her mother very
pale, thin, weak and tired, and Sisi asked her daughter to write to the
Emperor and tell him that she was now absolutely incapable of
discharging any duties that involved appearing in public.
Finally, the Emperor arrived in person and was in the utmost
consternation to find his wife in such a weak state. She refused all
normal nourishment and her nerves could no longer endure any attempt
to force her to eat. Valerie found her more inconsolable than she had ever
been before, even in the darkest days. She ought to have eaten and slept a
great deal and done very little walking, but did the exact opposite. If a
change did not take place soon, wrote the Archduchess, the results might
be lethal.
Once again Sisi’s mind seemed to be haunted by thoughts of death.
Previously, she had expressed a wish that her dead body might be buried
at sea or asked that, when her time came to die, she might be buried by
the sea. But now she longed to lie beside her son.
“I feel such a vast longing to lie there in a good, large coffin and
simply find rest, nothing but rest. More than that I neither expect nor
desire. You know, Valerie, in the spot where there is the window
overhead, where a little light and greenery peep into the vault and the
sparrows can be heard twittering.”
On his return to Vienna, the Emperor said to the German
Ambassador, Prince Eulenburg, who reported his words to his
Chancellor at home, “My whole visit to Cap Martin was ruined by my
anxiety over the Empress’s health. My wife was in such a state of nerves
that our life together was seriously inconvenienced.”
Sisi shut herself away from everybody, even refusing to see her
amiable lady-in-waiting, the Baroness Sennyey. To escape being
observed by curious eyes, she would often slip out into the park through
the underground service rooms of her hotel. But soon she could bear Cap
Martin no longer, and went on to Territet on Lake Geneva, of which she
was so fond. It so happened that the Archduke Franz Ferdinand was
there too, with his physician Viktor Eisenmenger, and the Emperor asked

363
him to examine the Empress too. Owing to her repeated cures, she had
developed an antipathy to doctors and would no longer listen to their
advice, but at last she allowed herself to be persuaded. Eisenmenger’s
examination disclosed the fact that, although her general health was
good, her skin was puffy, especially in the region of the joints, and in his
opinion this edema was of the kind typical of a state of starvation. He
found that she would often eat nothing all day except half a dozen
oranges.
“Yet, for all that, my weight is increasing,” she added.
“Naturally, Your Majesty,” replied the doctor, "that is because water
accumulates in the tissues as a result of undernourishment.”
Sisi shook her head skeptically and would only promise to drink a
few glasses of sheep’s milk every day.
Her stay at Territet did her so much good that in May she was able to
return to Lainz for a short time. But now the improvement in her
condition that had been achieved with so much effort was swept away at
a single blow.
On May 5, news arrived of the appalling tragedy that had befallen the
Empress’s sister, the Duchess of Alençon, who had died in a terrible fire
at a charity bazaar in Paris. The details were of the most shocking nature,
the unfortunate Princess’s charred remains being quite unrecognizable
until her dentist was able to identify her, and the shock to Sisi was
crushing. She would admit nobody to her presence but the Emperor, who
had hurried to Lainz to console her. He pressed her to go to Kissingen in
the hope that it might do her good, but although his hopes had been
realized so far, on her return to Lainz, and afterwards to Ischl in July, her
spirits sank lower than ever. The Emperor complained to the German
Ambassador that his consort talked to him so much about death that his
depression was simply overwhelming.
On August 29, she left for the Karersee and Meran, where she tried
the grape cure. Her indifference to political matters was now complete,
except for an occasional gleam of interest where Hungary was
concerned. Therefore, when on September 21 Kaiser Wilhelm visited
Franz Josef in the Hungarian capital and proposed the health of the
chivalrous Hungarian people in one of his eloquent speeches that the
Countess Sztáray afterwards read to Sisi, she was so enthusiastic about it
that she telegraphed to Kaiser Wilhelm then and there, thanking him for

364
his “splendid toast” which “did so much good to a heart with Hungarian
sympathies.”
At the end of September Sisi left Meran and paid a visit to Valerie in
her new home at Wallsee. Here she was in comparatively good spirits,
and even cheerful at times, but as usual it was impossible to persuade her
to stay for long, as she could never forget that she was a mother-in-law.
But Franz Josef was growing older too and his political worries were
as pressing as ever. Every indisposition of the Empress’s agitated him,
and although their relationship was excellent, each of them increased the
nervousness of the other. This being so, the monarch clung more and
more to his friendship for Frau Schratt in which he was so exacting that
it often became burdensome and depressing to the actress, especially as
the scandalmongers never failed to make the most of this topic.
When this came to her ears, Frau Schratt was indignant, as she had
nothing with which to reproach herself. But so long as she was shielded
by the Empress’s protective hand, nothing worse than gossip could harm
her, as it was not for anybody to speak ill of her so long as the Emperor’s
consort esteemed her and distinguished her with her favor.
Such was the position of affairs when, at the end of November 1897,
Sisi once more left home.

365
Chapter 15

The Empress and Lucheni

Passing through Paris, Sisi again visited Biarritz, because although it had
done her no good earlier in the year, she was haunted by a longing for
the sea that is so wildly magnificent there.
Once again she wandered for hours along the shore, watching the
great rollers break with a thunderous roar and often getting drenched
through, with the result that her nervous disorders and neuralgic pains
only grew worse. She would have liked to go to Lourdes, but this was
impossible, and all her conversation now ran on the subject of death. She
did not wish to survive the Emperor, she said, but neither he nor her
children must be present at her death as it might cause them pain.
“I wish to die alone,” she told the Countess Sztáray.
Despairing of her health, she abandoned her projected trip to the
Canaries and even thought of returning to Metzger, who was now in
Paris, although she had decided by this time that he was a charlatan.
This news reached Franz Josef at a time when serious clashes were
taking place in Bohemia between Germans and Czechs over the language
question, and depressed him still further. “Provided only that Metzger
does not handle you too roughly,” he wrote to Sisi on December 17,
1897, “and get you back into his unscrupulous and grasping clutches,
and use you as a means of advertisement. There was only one ray of light
in your letter and that was the prospect that you may give up your ocean
voyage. I should be quite endlessly grateful to you if this decision, which
is still in the balance, were to become a certainty. Because, on top of all
my cares and grief, it would be more than my nerves could stand if I had
to endure anxiety about you as well, knowing you to be out at sea, cut off
from all news. Besides which, it really seems to me risky for you to be so
far away just at present, quite out of reach, in view of the events with
which we hope we shall not be confronted, but possibly could be.”
The Emperor’s words had some effect. Sisi was disgusted by
Metzger’s attitude in Paris when he went so far as to insist that she
should place herself entirely under his care for six whole months. Other
doctors said absolutely the opposite and recommended a warmer climate,
so Sisi gave up the idea of massage, and after laying wreaths on the
graves of Heine and her sister the Duchess of Alençon, she went on to

366
San Remo by way of Marseilles. She was now so broken up by weakness
and pain that, to quote the Countess Sztáray, she had become “as
biddable as a dear child who is ill, listening to well-meaning advice and
visibly benefiting from it.”
Yet as soon as she felt any return of her strength, she at once wanted
to resume her long walks. She even contemplated buying a villa in San
Remo, but the Countess Sztáray managed to dissuade her from this as
she was sure to grow tired of it, as she had done of the Achilleion,
negotiations for the sale of the which were now in progress with the
Byron Society of London, although the price that was being asked for it
– two million gulden – was considered to be too high.

And now the year 1899 was approaching. “What shall I have to write on
these empty pages?” wrote Valerie in the new volume of her diary.
January found the Empress suffering from an inflamed nerve in the
arm and shoulder which made it impossible for her to practice her
gymnastics or sleep at night.
“Even this will come to an end, however,” she wrote to Valerie, “and
eternal rest will be all the more welcome.”
She longed for her husband and pressed him to pay her a visit because
she was most unhappy at losing that physical fitness on which she had
prided herself all her life. But conditions within the Monarchy were too
critical for the Emperor to absent himself for so long. “It is an
exaggeration,” he wrote to her in February, “to say that you feel as
though you were eighty, but come what may, one is growing weaker and
less energetic all the time, and the nerves gradually lose their powers of
resistance. I feel exactly the same thing myself and the progress of decay
in me this year is particularly noticeable … It is depressing to think how
long our separation may last. When and where shall we meet again?”
On March 1, Sisi traveled from San Remo to Territet. Her health was
not much improved and she was still weak, but yet again she took long
and exhausting excursions into the mountains, until, hearing of this from
Barker, the Emperor implored her to stop subjecting her enfeebled
constitution to such a strain and systematically ruining her health by her
own actions. Territet was now too much for her and she hoped to regain
her strength with a cure at Kissingen, of which she was very fond.
“It is not beautiful in the grand style,” she wrote to Valerie, “but so
lovable, so nice and quiet. Exactly like real countryside, and the air is

367
like a balm.”
From here she sent congratulations to her daughter Gisela on her
silver wedding day and added, “On this day you will sadly miss our
Rudolf, whom we can never forget as he was so full of life and happiness
at your wedding twenty-five years ago, and saw you depart with such a
heavy heart. How we miss him, but I envy him for being at rest.”
On April 25, the Emperor joined his wife at Kissingen, and as a
pleasant surprise told her how he had got two lovely cows for her dairy
from an English lord in return for two horses from the stables at Lippiza.
He had been prepared in advance to find Sisi looking ill and tired, but
what impressed him most was the fact that she, who had once been so
fast and tireless a walker, now dragged herself slowly and wearily along.
She controlled herself in his presence with an effort and managed, to
some extent, to conceal her depression, so this week passed by in
complete harmony. But the Emperor saw that she was in an extremely
serious condition, so he encouraged Valerie to join her mother at
Kissingen and to try to exert a reasonable influence over her.
Once again mother and daughter were reunited as in the happy days
of Valerie’s childhood. But, in those days, the Empress had suffered only
occasional attacks of melancholy, whereas now she was never free from
it and said to her daughter, “You know, the words ‘hope’ and ‘rejoicing’
have been struck out of my life forever.”
Yet, tired and languid though she was, Sisi refused to give up her
walks, although her expeditions to Klaushof and other places now took
place at a more leisurely pace. Now and then a brighter mood would
momentarily alleviate the gloom, recalling happier days, only to be
immediately succeeded by despairing melancholy and physical
prostration.
“I long for death,” she remarked to Valerie, “and I have no fear of it,
as I refuse to believe that there is a power so cruel that, not content with
the sufferings of life, it would tear the soul from the body in order to go
on torturing it.”
“But man is far too small and wretched to meditate on the nature of
God,” she would say. “I have long ceased to do so.”
Of one thing alone she was sure: that God was strong and in the right.
Might, she said, is always right.
Soon Valerie had to return to her family, which Sisi felt most keenly.
“We had some extremely good times together,” Sisi wrote to her from

368
Bad Brückenau, where she went for her after-cure, “as in the good old
days. But it is not good for me to get used to them again for such a short
time.”
She next joined her husband at Ischl, where Widerhofer was
instructed to prescribe her future diet. Franz Josef had arranged that he
was to make an official pronouncement on the state of the Empress’s
health, if only to prepare the public to hear that she would not be present
at the celebrations of the Emperor’s jubilee. It was hoped that in this way
Sisi might be influenced indirectly and submit with a better grace to the
doctors’ advice.
On July 3, 1898, an official bulletin was therefore issued that spoke
of anemia, inflammation of the nerves, insomnia and a certain dilatation
of the heart, which, it said, gave no cause for serious anxiety but called
for thorough treatment at Bad Nauheim.

On July 16, the Empress left Ischl. Her husband was never to see her
again alive. Although he felt no premonition of the coming tragedy, he
felt the parting more than ever this time and on the very next day wrote
to her as follows, “I miss you here unspeakably. My thoughts are with
you and I think sorrowfully of the endless time for which we are to be
parted. Your empty, dismantled rooms make me particularly sad.”
And this separation was indeed to have no end.
Sisi had traveled to Nauheim by way of Bavaria, where she visited
the scenes of her childhood. But she disliked this spa. The air was not
good, there were few walks, and there were large numbers of Berliners
whom it was impossible to avoid. And besides, she felt the separation
from home and all her loved ones. Franz Josef was pleased that Sisi had
thought of him at once and written to him so lovingly. She would soon
get used to Nauheim, he wrote, but for the present all she had to do was
to take serious measures to restore her health. He had two patients, now,
he said, for die Freundin was often ill, too. She was being attended by
Widerhofer, who found her as intractable as Sisi, and remarked to the
Emperor that in this respect she was “an Empress number two.”
Sisi was examined by Professor Schott of Nauheim and the first thing
he wanted to do was to take some X-rays of her heart. But the Empress
absolutely refused. When the doctor explained how important it was, she
replied, “Yes, for you or my brother Karl Theodor perhaps, but not for
me. I will not be dissected while I am still alive.” And as she went out

369
she remarked to the Professor's assistant, “You know, Fräulein, I greatly
dislike being photographed, because every time I have had a photograph
taken, it has brought me bad luck.”
Her spirits still left much to be desired. “I am out of humor and
depressed,” she wrote to Valerie, “and the family may be glad that I am
far away. I have a feeling that I shall never be able to pull myself
together again.”
The Empress preserved the strictest anonymity and received
absolutely nobody. “Tell Widerhofer,” she wrote to her daughter during
that hot August, “that I had never supposed it would be so horrible here.
It makes me morally ill. Even Barker finds little difference between this
place and Alexandria in summer. I go on from day to day merely
vegetating, dragging myself to the few shady places and taking an
occasional drive with Irma, but I am plagued by the dust and flies.” She
could hardly wait for the day when she could return to the fresh
mountain air of Switzerland. She wanted to leave for Caux and asked the
Emperor to be sure to visit her there. But conditions at home would not
allow his absence at that particular time.
On escaping from Nauheim, Sisi managed to evade the tiresome
ceremonies of a formal leave-taking by a little ruse. She gave out that she
was going on an expedition to Homburg by way of Mannheim, but her
intention was never to come back, leaving it to her suite to follow on
with the luggage.
She drove into the courtyard of the Schloss at Homburg in an
ordinary cab. The sentinel on guard sprang forward and stopped her,
whereupon Sisi replied that she was the Empress of Austria. The man
simply laughed and took her before his officer. An orderly was sent to
the Schloss to say that there was a lady in the guardroom who alleged
that she was the Empress of Austria. A chamberlain came rushing out
and recognized Sisi, who was released with a flood of apologies, upon
which a smile lit up the face which so rarely laughed now. The Empress
Frederick hurried to receive her, but fond though Sisi was of her, she
found this visit to one who, like her, had known terrible trials, rather an
ordeal. Indeed, Sisi had increasing difficulty in conversing with anybody
who was not one of her intimate circle.
On the return journey, she passed through Frankfurt, where a crowd
was waiting to see her at the station. But since she had preferred to drive,
she was able to mix with the crowd without being recognized and

370
listened smilingly to the remarks that people were making. Then she
went on to Switzerland where her destiny awaited her.
Fearless and unsuspecting, Sisi pursued her wanderings, regardless of
the political and social affinities in the countries she visited. A republic
surrounded by monarchies, Switzerland had become a refuge for
conspirators of all nationalities, anarchists and advocates of political
violence, bent upon realizing a new ideal of government based upon
some theoretical system and over-throwing the existing social order by
any means in their power. In free Switzerland they were comparatively
unmolested and pursued their aims in greater security. It was the foreign
workmen domiciled in Switzerland who were especially imbued with the
spirit of anarchy. Those who chanced to mix with these elements were all
too easily dazzled by the glittering rainbow visions conjured up by these
eloquent and subversive philanthropists who enjoyed comparative
immunity from police interference.
A new post office was being built in Lausanne, for which a number of
skilled workmen had been engaged, including many Italians. One of
these happened to injure his foot slightly. He was taken to the hospital in
Lausanne, where an official questioned him as to his name and origin.
He was a man of medium height but very powerfully built and in perfect
health, except for his foot. He had dark, curly hair, a bushy blond
moustache, and gleaming gray-green deep-set eyes like those of a cat.
His name was Luigi Lucheni and his age was twenty-six.
Among the belongings that he deposited at the hospital was a
notebook containing anarchist songs. On one page was a drawing of a
bludgeon with the legend, “Anarchia,” and written beneath this in Italian
was, “For Humbert I.” He was reported to the police as a suspicious
character, but it was not considered necessary to keep him under
particularly close observation on the strength of these facts alone, still
less to arrest him. His wound soon healed and during his long hours in
hospital he told the hospital orderly stories of his life.
The orderly had just received a letter from his mother. “I never knew
mine,” remarked Lucheni. “She was a day-laborer from Albareto in the
Ligurian Apennines, and left her native village at the age of eighteen on
discovering that she was pregnant. She wandered westward until she
reached Paris, where she hoped to bring the child into the world
unnoticed among the millions in that great city. It was born in a hospital,
but after a few days she disappeared, leaving the baby behind, and was

371
never seen again. A search was made, but when she reached America, all
trace of her was lost and she troubled no more about her son.”
The boy was brought up first in the foundling hospital of Saint
Antoine in Paris and then in Parma, and a year later was entrusted to
foster parents. The records say that he was very intelligent and
industrious, and by the time he was nine he was already working on the
railway between Parma and Spezia. He earned glowing reports
everywhere, had no bad marks against his name, and provided for
himself capably.
During the years 1891 and 1892, he was seized with a desire to travel.
Having neither kith nor kin, the lad wandered from one country to
another, working in the cantons of Ticino and Geneva, then going on to
Austria, and finally making his way from Fiume to Trieste, where he
arrived without a penny in his pocket.
The laboring classes there were kept under particularly strict police
observation on account of nationalist agitation. Before long he was
deported as being unemployed and destitute, and had to cross the frontier
into Austrian Italy. He had become liable for military service the
previous year and was now drafted into the Cavalleggeri Monferrato
Regiment No. 13 as a private. He took part with his squadron in the
Abyssinian campaign of 1896, in which he acquitted himself well. In
fact, his squadron commander, Prince Raniero de Vera d’Aragona,
singled him out as the best soldier in the regiment in the opinion of all
his officers. He was promoted to the grade of lance-corporal, but lost his
rank immediately afterwards, his offence being that he had procured
civilian clothes for a sergeant-major who had been confined to barracks.
Although contrary to discipline, however, this was generally regarded as
merely an act of kindness toward a comrade.
Lucheni was an excellent rider and particularly good at jumping, and
his liveliness made him popular among his fellow soldiers. For the rest,
he was miserably poor, having nothing to live on but his pay. His captain
never had cause to complain about him, although he was well aware that
Lucheni was ambitious and inclined to be stubborn. On the completion
of his military service on December 15, 1897, it was entered on his
discharge sheet that his behavior during that period had been good and
that he had performed his duty loyally and honorably.
Having no resources whatsoever, Lucheni was now faced with the
problem of his future and applied to his captain for assistance. The

372
original intention had been to engage him as a warder in state prisons,
but since this came to nothing, his captain, the Prince d’Aragona,
proposed that he should enter his own personal service.
For three-and-a-half months Lucheni acted as manservant in his
captain’s house. There were occasional differences of opinion, but here,
too, he worked well and honestly on the whole.
One day, however, he presented himself before the captain and asked
for a wage rise. The officer considered this a little premature and refused,
whereupon Lucheni said that he would leave. A few days later he
regretted this and begged to be taken back into the Prince’s service, but
his master replied that he was too insubordinate for domestic service, and
Lucheni had once more to go out into the wide world and look for work
with very little money in his pocket. However, he kept in touch with the
d’Aragona household, and especially with the Princess, who was sorry
for him and would, he hoped, succeed in persuading her husband to take
him back.
On March 31, he finally gave up service and made his way over the
St. Gotthard pass into Switzerland. He now thought of entering the
Foreign Legion, but nothing came of this, and he went on to Lausanne,
where he arrived in May. Meanwhile, he had come into contact with a
number of unsavory elements. Resentful of the Prince’s readiness to let
him go, and oppressed by poverty, he proved a fertile soil for all the
dangerous doctrines disseminated by such people. He greedily devoured
the revolutionary newspapers that pointed indignantly to the Dreyfus
Case as a proof of how rotten bourgeois society was. It needed but a
blow, they said, to upset this house of cards and set up in its place a new
ideal state based on social justice in which all would be equally well off
and there would be no princes and no outcasts. All that was needed was a
single great man to change the face of the world, as Christ had done.
Such a man must have the courage to commit a deed that would bring the
whole structure crashing down, but in so doing he would cause his name
to be exalted to the skies.
This obscure workman dreamed of singling himself out from the
mass of people by some great deed and thus proving his worth. If only he
could find André, he thought, who had made an ascent in a balloon from
Spitzbergen the year before with the object of reaching the North Pole
but had never been heard of since. At a single blow he would find

373
himself world-famous. But any means would do so long as his name got
into the newspapers and was on everyone’s lips.
The anarchists with whom Lucheni now began to mix observed their
new associate with interest. He was not affiliated to any of their
societies, but he was full of vanity, and for this reason, they thought,
might possibly be used as a tool in the hazardous agenda of political
violence that they considered necessary, but from which so many were
deterred by the possible consequences to themselves.
But this man seemed eager for action and they persuaded him that it
was necessary for some Prince or Emperor to die, no matter which one,
so long as the world was shown that these idlers who do nothing but
oppress others, who raise themselves above other people, who travel
about in luxurious private trains, and who live in splendid hotels and
palaces, are as nothing before the will of the people or a dagger wielded
by a bold hand. All this went to Lucheni’s head. What if he could send
the King of Italy or some other King to his death?
He sent letters and newspapers of an anarchist tendency to a soldier in
his old squadron in Naples. “The anarchist ideal,” he wrote, “is making
giant strides here. Pray do your duty by our comrades, too, who know
nothing about it.”
Yet all the while he was begging the Prince d’Aragona and his wife to
take him back into their service. But the captain had heard that he had
sent out these subversive newspapers and refused. This only increased
Lucheni’s bitterness.
But if he was to send someone to his death, he must have a weapon.
He had seen a good stiletto, but the shop wanted twelve-francs-fifty for it
and he did not have it. Next he tried to borrow a revolver, but without
success. Every day he read the Italian newspaper II Socialista, published
in Neuchâtel, and the Avanti of Milan. One day he heard that there had
been a brawl among the workmen at Delmarco, one of whom had been
left on the spot nearly dead, upon which Lucheni remarked to an
acquaintance, “Ah! How I should like to kill somebody, but it must be
somebody of great importance so that it gets into the papers.”
He still lacked a weapon, however, so he would have to make one
himself. He happened to see in the market a sharp, rusty, iron file,
costing only a few sous. It could not be used as a dagger as it had no
handle, but that did not matter. A bit of rough firewood, a pocket-knife
and a bradawl, and he could make one himself.

374
 Now that he had the weapon, all he needed was a victim, and that
would not take long to find. For instance, there was Prince Henry of
Orléans, who so often stayed in or near Geneva, or some other Prince.
Perhaps he might even get to Paris and play a role in the Dreyfus trial
about which the whole world was talking. But that would involve a
journey and its attendant expense.

And now, in the week of August 22 to 28, the papers began to speak of
Sisi’s approaching visit to Caux. The Empress of such a powerful
country would be a victim worth having. Through her he would strike at
the whole governing class and see his name emblazoned abroad and
maybe throughout the entire world.
Hypnotized by this idea, he was blinded to the immorality of using an
innocent, defenseless woman who had never done anything but good to
anybody, as the means to such an end.
Meanwhile, toward the end of August, the anarchists were holding
secret meetings in various towns: First at Lausanne, in the house of one
of the comrades, then at Neuchâtel, where various well-known Italian
anarchists were to be found, among them the editor of L’Agitatore. A
coup was planned for somewhere in Switzerland or Italy, possibly
against King Humbert. Lucheni was never present at these gatherings of
regular members, but his name came under consideration as he would
make a useful instrument.
On August 30, Sisi of Austria arrived in the “enchanting land of
Switzerland” in glorious weather, as her Greek reader, Barker, reported
to the Archduchess Valerie. The beautiful neighborhood soon suggested
excursions and parties. First, on September 2, they went to Bex, the
views from which reminded Sisi of the Dachstein and the countryside
near her home. On the way back to Caux in the evening, the Empress
enjoyed a glorious sunset with magnificent effects of light and color. The
whole day was so fine that Sisi felt unusually cheerful and refreshed.
Yet all was not quite well with her. As she walked rapidly up the steps
to the station at Caux so as to escape the curious crowd following her,
she was seized with a panic attack.
On September 3, she went up the Rochers de Naye in glorious
weather on the mountain railway and enjoyed the glorious view over the
whole of Lake Geneva from a height of 6,500 feet. She had taken some
splendid peaches and grapes with her, sent by the Baroness Rothschild

375
from her villa at Pregny, on Lake Geneva, together with a pressing
invitation to the Empress to visit her there. The Baroness had suggested
this visit several times before through Sisi’s sisters, and this time the
Empress thought of accepting, especially since she had heard how
enchanting this estate was thanks to the wealth of the Rothschilds.
On the fifth she made a trip by steamer to Evian, with which she was
a little disappointed, although the journey back to Territet was beautiful.
There were some Italian musicians on the boat who played melancholy
Italian folk songs. Sisi discussed with the Countess Sztáray a plan for
going to Geneva, but wished to travel without any gentlemen-in-waiting
and to be attended only by the Countess and the necessary servants.
General von Berzeviczy begged the Empress to take at least one male
attendant with her, if only her private secretary, Dr. Kromar.
For a long time Sisi would not hear of it, but at last she said, “Tell
Berzeviczy that I will take the doctor with me to please him, as I know
he has a certain responsibility toward Vienna, although it vastly
displeases me.” It was now decided that the Baroness Rothschild’s
invitation could be accepted.
On her return, Sisi received a letter from Franz Josef dated September
1. “I went to the Villa Hermes,” it said, “to enjoy a breath of air. A great
flock of swallows had collected at the gateway to the Tiergarten,
evidently preparing to start out on their travels. Several times I looked up
at your window with feelings of great sadness and went back in thought
to the days that we spent together in our dear villa. In the evening I had
both sour and sweet milk from the farm ... Your KI [Little one].”
Reading this letter made Sisi feel homesick. She wrote an affectionate
letter to her daughter Valerie – the last she was ever to write – telling her
about her excursions and remarking in passing that her face had grown a
little fuller and that she was afraid of becoming too fat like her sister the
Queen of the Two Sicilies.
General von Berzeviczy now appeared and handed her a letter written
to him by Count Paar, the Emperor’s Adjutant General, to whom he had
mentioned Sisi’s desire that Franz Josef might visit her there. “To come
to Caux after the maneuvers,” ran the letter, “would undoubtedly do the
Emperor no end of good, but it is entirely beyond the bounds of
possibility.” Paar gave a detailed account of the Emperor’s heavy
program of engagements in the near future. “It would certainly do him
good,” he continued, “to be able to draw breath where everything is good

376
and beautiful and peace reigns, but to His Majesty consideration for
himself comes second to everything else and he will certainly not allow
himself the trip.”
Franz Josef himself regretted this most of all. “How happy I should
be,” he wrote on September 19, “if I could enjoy all that with you
quietly, as you wish, and see you again after such a long separation. But
unfortunately I cannot think of it. Apart from the difficult political
situation at home, the whole of the second half of September is already
booked up with jubilee festivities, dedications of churches, and visits to
the Exhibition.”
Sisi found the company of her Greek reader, Barker, very congenial,
and she often discussed serious problems with him on her walks. Once
she described her visit to the Capuchin monastery after Rudolf’s death,
adding that it had caused her to realize that there is no life after death.
But of this, too, she felt doubtful, so she proposed that they should both
promise that whichever of them was to die first should give the other one
a sign from beyond the grave.
The Baroness Rothschild had offered the Empress her yacht to carry
her to Pregny, but Sisi considered that she could not accept such a
courtesy from anyone but a Sovereign, and certainly not from the
Rothschild family whose servants they could not tip, and so the offer was
declined. September 8 was spent in short walks in the neighborhood. Sisi
telegraphed her congratulations to her daughter Valerie on her name day.
She was feeling better than ever, she said, and looking forward to her
visit to Pregny. And she brushed aside the warnings of General
Berzeviczy and the Countess Sztáray against going to Geneva. Having
consented to taking a male attendant with her, she felt that to be
sufficient.

And so September 9 came round. It was a gloriously sunny fall morning.

Sisi had not slept well, as she had not yet received any answer to her
telegram to Valerie, but the glories of nature soothed her and she gazed
out wonderingly across the beautiful blue lake that reminded her of the
sea. She talked of her plans for future travel, about Corfu and the
Achilleion, which was now standing half empty and which she would not
visit again, she said, until it had been turned into a good hotel. The state
of her health would not allow her to take her usual long voyage that
winter, so she spoke of going to Nice or Cairo.

377
 She was in a gentle mood that day and had a kind word for
everybody. The voyage from Territet to Geneva lasted four hours. The
Empress wandered up and down the deck and was amused at a
mischievous little boy of three whose parents could not keep him in
order. She sent him fruit and cakes, and when he came stumbling over
shyly and awkwardly to thank her, she said, “How pleased Valerie would
have been if she could have seen that.”
At one o’clock the boat arrived in Geneva, where Dr. Kromar handed
her Valerie’s telegram of thanks. Her mind was now at rest and she at
once continued on her way to the Baroness Rothschild’s house. Her
hostess, a lady of fifty-eight, had made all the preparations necessary to
honor the occasion. In the dining room there was a splendidly decorated
table with valuable old Viennese porcelain and magnificent orchids.
There was a dish of costly fruit that were all out of season. Countless
footmen in splendid liveries waited at table. Sisi thought it all very
beautiful but the servants embarrassed her as it was impossible to say
anything in front of them; they all seemed positively to hang on her
every word.
One special dish followed another, accompanied by costly iced
champagne. The déjeuner à trois went off most pleasantly, accompanied
by lovely subdued music, soft enough not to interrupt the conversation.
At the end, Sisi drank her hostess’s health and gave the Countess Sztáray
the menu to enclose with an account of the lunch to the Emperor,
instructing her to underline the “petites timbales,” the “mousse de
volaille” and the “crême glacée à la hongroise,” the latter twice because
she had liked it best.
After lunch they went over the villa. It was a regular little museum of
costly art treasures, all tastefully arranged and without ostentation. And
now came the best thing of all – aviaries full of strange exotic birds from
every part of the world, and aquariums with the strangest kinds of fish,
while what most enchanted Sisi were some tame miniature porcupines
from Java. Last came the fairylike conservatories, full of glorious
flowers. Sisi stayed longest of all in the orchid house, almost speechless
with admiration. Next they went through the park with its mighty cedars
of Lebanon and artistically laid out rock gardens with miniature conifers
and alpine plants. The Countess Sztáray was instructed to note three
special varieties of flowers that Sisi wished to have planted at Lainz.
The Baroness Rothschild asked if the Empress was not tired.

378
 “Oh, no! Why, we have still to visit the little Swiss chalet that I can
see over there and the private landing stage where I can see a sailboat
and a steam yacht.”
The hostess next escorted Sisi to the visitors’ book, where she wrote
her name. Fortunately she did not turn back to the earlier pages, for
there, on a page by itself, was the name of her dead son, Rudolf.
The Baroness Rothschild expressed a desire to visit the Empress at
Caux and was so insistent that Sisi could not avoid inviting her.
The visit lasted three hours, after which Sisi started back to the Hotel
Beau Rivage in Geneva. On the way there she talked cheerfully and
brightly to the Countess Sztáray at first, but then, as so often happened,
the conversation began to turn to the subjects of religion and death.
The Countess Sztáray was deeply religious. “I am a believer,” said
Sisi, “although perhaps I have not as much faith as you. But I know my
own nature and it is by no means an impossibility that you may yet see
me become extremely religious. You do not fear death, but I do, although
I often long for it. It is the moment of passing and the uncertainty that
make me tremble.”
“But in the world beyond there is peace and bliss,” said the Countess
Sztáray.
“How do you know that? No traveler has ever returned to tell us
about it.”
On arriving, Sisi retired to her own apartments. An hour later she
appeared again and took a little walk around the town. It was half-past-
six on a glorious evening. They went into a few confectioners’ shops on
the way. By a quarter-to-ten at night Sisi was back at her hotel. She had a
large corner room on the second floor with two additional little rooms
and a view over the lake.
It was a splendid moonlit night and the Empress could not sleep. First
she had to listen to an Italian singer bawling out his songs into the night.
The street was very noisy and the room was flooded with moonlight,
besides which the lighthouse illuminated it with shafts of changing hues.
But Sisi insisted on leaving the window open and would not have any
curtains drawn, so it was two o’clock in the morning before she fell
asleep. The moon shone full in her face so that, shortly afterwards, she
suddenly started out of her sleep in alarm.
On other days she was usually up by seven o’clock and had generally
gone out for a walk by that time, but on September 10 she lay in bed a

379
little longer on account of her bad night. At nine o’clock the Countess
Sztáray appeared and asked for her instructions.
“I want to go into the town at eleven o’clock and hear an orchestrion,
a new sort of musical machine, and then, at one-forty, as arranged, we
take the boat for Caux. I shall not require anything before then.”
Punctually at eleven the Empress was ready for her walk, fresh and
cheerful in spite of her bad night. They went to Backer's music shop in
the Rue Bonnivard. The orchestrion was wound up and played Sisi’s
favorite tunes. Sisi next chose a large automatic musical machine, known
as an Ariston, for Wallsee, hoping that not only Valerie and the children,
but also the Emperor and Franz Salvator would enjoy it. Meanwhile, a
lady came in, stared obtrusively at the Empress and then asked the
Countess Sztáray whether she might be presented to Her Majesty on the
ground that she was a well-known Belgian countess and knew Sisi’s
sisters well; but the lady-in-waiting could not consent.
Everything was now concluded as quickly as possible and they left
the shop to avoid being pestered by this woman. By now it was quite late
and Sisi returned to the hotel barely twenty minutes before the boat was
due to leave, and hurriedly drank a glass of milk.

Meanwhile, another meeting of anarchists had taken place at Thonon-les-

Bains on September 6, at which the death of the Empress was decided
upon. Lucheni, who was always boasting that he was a man of action,
was probably summoned before it, although there is nothing to prove this
or to show where Lucheni had been staying in the meantime. He had
obviously heard something about the Empress’s visit to Evian on the
fifth. At any rate, he had in his pocket an official list of foreign visitors
between the third and fifth of September. The Duke of Orléans and the
Duke of Chartres were not, as it is sometimes alleged, in Evian, or even
in Switzerland, but the whole of Lake Geneva was talking about the
Empress Sisi, and Lucheni knew for certain that she had visited Evian.
By September 8 he was already in Geneva making plans of some
kind, as on that very evening he sent a picture postcard to the Princess de
Vera d’Aragona, his former mistress, saying, “I cannot explain to you,
my lady, the reasons why I did not go to Paris … In the next letter I write
you I will tell you why it was. I feel well in every respect … I do not
expect an answer but merely inform you that I shall leave Geneva on
Saturday.”

380
 Luigi Lucheni obviously knew that the Empress was coming to
Geneva on September 9. He hung about in the neighborhood of the Hotel
Beau Rivage and the landing stage from which the boat embarked. He
did not obtain his information about the Empress’s probable visit from
the newspapers but from some other quarter, as it was not until the
morning of the tenth that the papers contained a notice that Sisi was
staying at the Hotel Beau Rivage under the name of the Countess of
Hohenembs.
This was quite bad enough as the people at the hotel had been most
earnestly requested to respect her anonymity, yet on the very day of the
Empress’s arrival, the management of the hotel had informed three
Geneva newspapers of her arrival, the Journal de Genève, the Genevois
and the Tribune.
When the Empress arrived on the evening of the ninth, Lucheni was
probably no longer there. But if he was not yet certain whether she was
coming, on September 10 he would have learned it from the morning
papers. By nine in the morning he was already at his observation post,
and at ten o’clock he was seen on a seat in front of the hotel talking to a
well-dressed man with a white beard, who looked like a man of means.
When Sisi left at eleven, Lucheni had already gone to get something
to eat so that her walk passed off without incident. But then he returned.
It was now time to start out; indeed it was already late. The servants
and Dr. Kromar had already gone on ahead. The Countess Sztáray was
pressing Her Majesty to start out as she was afraid she might be late. Sisi
gave her some more of her milk to drink, and then at last the two ladies
left the hotel five minutes before the boat was due to depart.
On the way to the boat, the Countess Sztáray noticed two chestnut
trees in bloom.
“Yes,” replied Sisi in Magyar, “the King, too, writes that there are a
few chestnuts in bloom at Schönbrunn and on the Prater, although it is
fall.”
And now the bell on the boat rang and the two ladies started to walk
faster, but the Empress said, “We will still be in time. Just watch how
slowly and languidly people are climbing on board.”
Lucheni had watched closely while the Empress’s manservant took
the luggage on board, so he felt sure that Her Majesty was going to take
that boat which left at one-forty. He felt with his right hand for the file in
his pocket. Then suddenly he saw Sisi and the Countess Sztáray coming

381
out of the hotel and walking across the Quai Mont-Blanc toward the
steamer. He fell back a little as there were still too many people around
the two women. The hotel proprietor and porter were taking leave of
them with deep bows, but then at last they were left alone. The two
women walked down the quay; it was lunchtime and there was hardly a
soul about.
The moment had come.
Lucheni crossed the street with a bound, ran swiftly across the path
where Sisi was walking until he reached the balustrade next to the lake,
then turned at a sharp angle and as quick as lightning rushed at the two
women.
They both stopped to make way for him and to avoid a collision,
whereupon Lucheni pulled up short in front of the Countess Sztáray as
though about to stumble. Then, raising his right hand high in the air, he
sprang at Sisi with a catlike bound, stopped as if trying to peep
underneath her parasol, and with a mighty blow plunged his triangular
weapon into her breast.
Silently, without uttering a cry, Sisi fell backwards onto the ground
like a felled tree under the force of the blow. Her head struck the
pavement and only her luxuriant masses of hair broke the force of the
blow. So rapidly had it all taken place that the Countess Sztáray, barely
aware of what had happened, uttered a shriek and, with the aid of a cab
driver who had rushed up, tried to help the Empress to her feet while the
assassin ran away.
Sisi regained her feet, crimson with agitation, and tried to tidy her
hair, which was in disarray. The Countess Sztáray, who had only seen the
man strike her with his fist, exclaimed, “Is Your Majesty hurt? Do you
feel any pain anywhere?” and an Englishman who had come up to them
made the same inquiries.
“No, no, thank you,” replied the Empress, “it is nothing.”
The hotel porter had hurried to the spot and asked the Empress to
return to the hotel.
“But no, I am not hurt.”
“But Your Majesty must be frightened.”
“Oh yes, I was certainly frightened.”
Sisi straightened her hat, the dust was shaken from her dress, and then
she asked the Countess in Magyar, “Whatever did that man want?”
“The porter?”

382
 “No, the other one – that horrible person.”
“I don’t know, Your Majesty, but this I do know, that nobody except a
vile creature could have done such a thing. Is Your Majesty really not
hurt?”
“No, no.”
And now the two women walked rapidly from the scene of the attack
toward the steamer.
Suddenly all the color drained from Sisi’s face and it took on a
deathly pallor. She must have felt this as she turned quickly to the
Countess who had slipped her arm around her mistress, fearing she might
be suffering from shock.
“Have I turned very pale now?” Sisi asked.
“Yes, Your Majesty, very. Your Majesty feels no pain?”
“I think my breast is a little painful.”
At this moment the porter came running up again, shouting from a
distance, “The criminal is caught.”
Sisi walked lightly as far as the narrow gangway, where the Countess
Sztáray was forced to withdraw her hand from her mistress’s waist for a
moment. Sisi crossed the gangway but she had scarcely set foot on the
deck before she turned abruptly to the Countess Sztáray.
“Give me your arm now,” she said, “but quickly.”
The Countess threw her arm around her and a manservant hurried up,
but the two of them together could no longer hold the Empress upright.
She sank slowly to the ground and lost consciousness, her head drooping
onto the chest of the Countess, who was kneeling beside her.
“Water! Water!” cried the Countess. “And a doctor.”
They brought water and she sprinkled it on Sisi’s face. The Empress
opened her eyes, but they were those of a dying woman.
There was no doctor on board, only a woman, Madame Dardalle, who
had been a nurse and now took charge of the suffering lady.
Captain Roux approached. The ship had not yet cast off, and hearing
that a woman had fainted and not knowing who she was, he advised the
Countess Sztáray to have her carried on shore at once and taken back to
the hotel. The answer he received was that it was only a fainting fit
brought on by shock.
All this had taken place just beside the engine room where it was very
hot. The captain offered them a reserved cabin but they preferred to
remain in the open air. Three men carried the Empress to the upper deck

383
and laid her on a seat, where Madame Dardalle tried to revive her. The
Countess Sztáray undid her dress, cut the lace of her stay, and pressed a
piece of sugar soaked in alcohol into the Empress’s mouth. She could be
heard crunching it between her teeth.
She now opened her eyes and tried to sit up.
“Does Your Majesty feel better?”
“Yes, thank you.”
The Empress sat upright, looked around her as though waking from a
deep sleep, and asked with an unspeakably touching expression on her
noble face, “Why, what has happened?”
“Your Majesty has not been very well, but you are better now, are you
not?”
There was no answer. Sisi sank back and never regained
consciousness again.
“Rub her chest,” said someone sharply.
The fastenings of her coat were torn open, and suddenly, to her terror,
the Countess Sztáray saw a brownish stain about the size of a florin, with
a little hole in the middle, on the violet batiste undergarment, and then a
tiny wound in the breast above it, to the left, with some clotted blood.
“Look, Madame, for Heaven’s sake,” she exclaimed, “she has been
murdered.” Meanwhile, the ship had started out and was turning
eastwards. The Countess sent for the captain. “I beg you, for the love of
Heaven,” she said, “to return to shore at once. The lady whom you see
here is the Empress of Austria. She has been wounded in the chest. I
cannot let her die without a doctor and a priest. Please land at Bellevue. I
intend to take the Empress to the Baroness Rothschild’s at Pregny.”
“But,” replied the captain, “you are not likely to find a doctor there,
or even a carriage.”
It was decided to return to Geneva at once. Meanwhile, as there was
no proper stretcher on board, they improvised one out of two oars and
some deckchairs. The Countess Sztáray knelt beside her mistress in
desperation, dried her white face from which drops of sweat were
trickling, and listened to her breathing, which began to rattle more and
more ominously in her throat.
Sisi was laid on the stretcher, covered with the cloak that she had
called after her sister the Countess Trani, and six people lifted it while a
man held a parasol over her head. With anguish in her heart the Countess
Sztáray walked beside the Empress and watched with terrible alarm how

384
she lay with eyes closed, turning her head restlessly from side to side.
But she was still alive, so some hope yet remained.
Sisi was carried back to the hotel where she had spent the previous
night. They laid her on the bed. A rattling sound was still perceptible but
no other sound. A doctor named Golay was on the spot and another man
named Teisset. The doctor had his listening device in his hand and tried
to insert it into the wound.
Anxiously, the Countess Sztáray questioned him, “Is there still
hope?”
“No, Madame, none,” was the despairing reply.
“Oh, perhaps there may be. Try everything, do everything to bring her
back to life.”
Her clothes and shoes were removed with the assistance of the hotel
proprietress, Madame Mayer, and an English nurse. A priest appeared
and pronounced the absolution. All those present fell on their knees and
prayed, but this was the end.
Another doctor arrived, but could do no more than to confirm that
Sisi was dead. A slight incision was made in the artery of the right arm
but not a drop of blood appeared. The Empress lay there peaceful and
happy, almost youthful-looking and lovely, with a faint flush on her
cheeks and a slight smile playing across her lips, her face as subtle and
charming as in her lifetime when it had captivated so many.

That day the Emperor Franz Josef had remained at Schönbrunn, and
finding he had a little more time available than usual, profited from it by
writing to the Empress. His wife’s letters to Valerie were always sent on
to him, too, so that he could have more news of her, and he was glad to
read in her letter to Valerie on her name day a positive account of how
she was.
“I rejoiced greatly,” he wrote to his wife, “at the better state of mind
reflected in your letter and at your contentment with the weather, the air,
and your quarters with the terrace, which must afford you a wonderful
view over the mountains and lake. I was touched at your having felt a
twinge of homesickness for our dear Villa Hermes in spite of this.”
He described how he had been there again the day before and had
thought about her a great deal. He told her about the weather and the
deer, which were now on the move. Then he gave her a detailed account

385
of his freundin, who was also away on tour in the mountains and rushing
around so much that he marveled at the amount she could do in a day.
"I am spending today here,” he said in conclusion, “and leave the
Staatsbahnhof at half-past-eight. I commend you to God, my beloved
angel. Embracing you with all my heart. Your little one.”
Franz Josef spent the following day looking through state papers and
then prepared for his departure on maneuvers.
At half-past-four in the afternoon, Count Paar arrived from the
Hofburg and urgently requested an audience. He was deathly pale and
held in his hand a telegram from Geneva, which ran, “Her Majesty the
Empress dangerously injured. Please break the news to His Majesty.”
The Count entered the Emperor’s study. Franz Josef looked up from
his desk.
“What is it, my dear Paar?” he said.
“Your Majesty,” stammered the General, “Your Majesty will not be
able to leave this evening. Unfortunately I have received very bad news.”
Franz Josef sprang to his feet. “From Geneva!” he exclaimed
instantly, and hurriedly took the telegram from the Count’s hand.
He reeled backwards, overcome with emotion.
“There must be more news soon,” he said. “Telegraph, telephone! Try
to gain some more details.”
And now footsteps were heard outside in the corridor. It was an aide-
de-camp with another telegram from Geneva. The Emperor seized it in
the utmost agitation. In his hurry to open it, he tore it right across.
“Her Majesty the Empress has just passed away,” he read with horror.
“So nothing at all is to be spared me upon the earth!” he exclaimed,
and with a sob he sank down on the chair in front of his desk and laid his
head on his arms, weeping. Then he started up, pulled himself together
and said, “First of all the children must be informed.”
The cruel tidings were soon on their way to Valerie at Wallsee and
Gisela in Munich, and they both started out for Vienna to support their
father in his grievous trial.

Immediately after the crime, Lucheni had made off as fast as he could,
confident that the weapon had struck deep. As he ran, he threw away the
file and the point broke as it fell. It remained lying there unnoticed and
was not found until much later.

386
 The assassin was at once pursued. A railway points operator, Antoine
Rouge, threw himself in his way and was the first to seize him.
Gendarmes and passersby hurried to the spot and Lucheni was taken into
custody.
While Rouge was holding him, he exclaimed, “Alright, I was on my
way to the police.”
Nobody knew yet that it was a question of assassination as he was
believed to have struck the Empress with his fist.
As they led him to the police station, he was asked whether he had
used a knife and replied, “If I had had one, you would have found it.”
Lucheni was taken to the police station by two gendarmes, to whom
he remarked, “I am only sorry I did not kill her.”
“So that was what you wanted!” said one of them called Lacroix. And
although he did not yet know the truth, he added, “Well, you have
murdered her.”
“All the better,” retorted Lucheni. “I thought it would kill anybody to
stab them with a thing like that.”
The gendarme now plied him with questions and Lucheni described
quite calmly how he had stabbed her with a small triangular file of the
type carpenters use for sharpening their saws. He showed not a trace of
remorse, but walked along between the two gendarmes with a smile on
his face, and even sang as he went through the streets until he was told to
stop.
The first thing they did at the police station was to search his clothing
thoroughly and they found a very worn purse containing six francs
thirty-five, two photographs of himself in military uniform, the list of
visitors to Evian, the certificate stating that he had won the Military
Medal in Africa, and three letters in Italian from the Princess de Vera
d’Aragona.
Lucheni was immediately questioned and he was giving an account of
his deeds when the telephone rang and the examining magistrate heard to
his horror the news of the Empress’s death.
When Lucheni was informed of this, he cynically expressed his
satisfaction. “Well, I meant to kill her,” he said. “I struck straight at the
heart and I am delighted by what you have told me.”
“What are you?”
“An anarchist.”
“Have you ever served a sentence before?”

387
 This ended the first interrogation and, at his own request, Lucheni
was driven to the prison of Saint Antoine in a cab, for which he paid
himself. He had started life in Saint Antoine’s home for foundlings in
Paris and it was to end in Saint Antoine’s prison in Geneva.
On the way there he remarked to Lacroix, “I am sorry there is no
death penalty in Geneva. I have done my duty. My colleagues will do
theirs. It is necessary for all the most powerful people in the world to be
convinced of this.”
The Procurator General Navazza, the most distinguished jurist in the
canton of Geneva, was entrusted with the inquiry. He made a close study
of Lucheni, subjected him to countless interrogations, and saw that he
was only too anxious to assume full responsibility for his deed in order
to enjoy the full renown that was his due.
“I have never belonged to a Socialist or anarchist society,” he said. “I
am an individual anarchist, and wherever I have been, I have always
associated with those who have the same way of thinking.”
Lucheni kept insisting that he cared nothing for his life and was
indifferent to punishment.
“Well, then, why did you try to make off afterwards as fast as you
could?” he was asked.
“I wasn’t trying to escape. I was only running to the police station.”
In reply to the question of why he had murdered the Empress,
Lucheni said, “As part of the war on the rich and powerful. A Lucheni
kills an Empress but would never kill a washerwoman.”
In a state of deep emotion, Navazza left the assassin. Here, he
thought, is a modern Herostratos, who set fire to the temple of Artemis at
Ephesus, one of the most splendid works of antiquity, and afterwards
confessed under torture that his reason for doing so was to make his
name immortal.
“Lucheni,” he said, “is inspired by the true megalomania of crime. I
have never come across such a criminal before in the whole of my career.
He is proud of his action and never ceases to lament that he cannot be
brought to the scaffold for it.”
Once again, in Lucheni’s case, it was proved that vanity can delude
people even more, and move them to even wilder actions, than starvation
or love. What Lucheni wanted was to drain the cup of fame to the last
drop. The whole world was reading his name and talking about him, and
he wanted it to hear from his own lips why he had acted as he had.

388
 As he wondered how this could be done, he remembered the Naples
newspaper Don Marzio, which he had often read during his military
service and knew to be inclined toward liberalism. He had resolved to
write to the editor-in-chief the day after the attack because, first and
foremost, Lucheni wanted this paper to counter the theory that he was a
born criminal. Lombroso’s contention that an individual could be born
into the world a predestined criminal was, he said, nonsense.
“I further request you,” he wrote, “to contradict those who have taken
it upon themselves to say that Lucheni did this deed out of poverty. That
is absolutely false. I proclaim in conclusion that … unless the ruling
class attempts to curb the greed with which it sucks the blood of its
fellow men, then, within the shortest possible time, the just blows of the
undersigned must fall upon all members of royalty, presidents and
ministers, and everyone who attempts to bring his fellow man into
subjugation for his own profit. The day is not far distant when true
friends of humanity will have extirpated all the laws at present in force.
One law will more than suffice: he who does not work shall not eat.
Yours obediently, Luigi Lucheni, the most convinced of anarchists.”
When the venerable editor of this newspaper heard of the letter from
the prison authorities, he could not imagine why it should have occurred
to the assassin to write to him, as Lucheni was entirely unknown to him.
So, in the issue of the newspaper that appeared on the 13th, he expressed
his abhorrence of this monster in human form. Meanwhile, Lucheni had
sent a petition to the President of the Swiss Confederation, requesting
that he might be tried according to the laws of the canton of Lucerne,
where the death penalty was still in force, and not of Geneva, where it
was not. He signed himself “Luigi Lucheni, anarchist, and one of the
most dangerous of that kind.”
He next wrote some private letters, first to the Princess d’Aragona.
“As a true Communist,” he said, “I could no longer survive such
injustices, and as a true friend of humanity I have thus made known to
the world that the hour is not far distant when a new sun shall shine upon
all men alike. I know that nothing remains to me in life. In the twenty-
five years I have lived in it, I have learned enough about the world. I
assure you, Princess, from the bottom of my heart, that never in my life
have I felt as contented as now. If only I could have the good fortune for
which I have petitioned, to be tried by the laws of the Canton of Lucerne,

389
then I would bound up the steps of the beloved guillotine and require no
compulsion from the assistants.”
A few days later there was another letter to the Princess in which
occur the words, “My case is comparable to the Dreyfus Case.”
How proud the criminal would have been had the prison authorities
allowed him to see all the letters congratulating him on his deed that
were sent to him by members of the underworld in Vienna, Laibach,
Florence, Lausanne, Naples, Sofia, Prague, Baltimore, London,
Romania, and Spain. We may read in them how all who were fighting for
the good of humanity endorsed his “noble deed,” how he had proved that
there were still “heroes” among the people, and how he must endure
without losing heart until, when the great day of victory arrived, the
people would throw open his dungeon.
But if these letters of enthusiastic approval were not shown to
Lucheni, neither were the messages of hate that arrived in even greater
numbers. Chief among these was one from the women and girls of
Vienna that filled the whole of a great roll and contained no less than
sixteen thousand signatures.

Murderer, beast, monster, ravenous wild beast, the

women and girls of Vienna sigh to avenge the fearful
crime that you have committed against our beloved
Empress. Do you know, ravenous beast, what you
deserve? Listen, monster. We should like to lay you on a
table – yes, kind-hearted though we are, we could look on
with pleasure while both your arms and feet were cut off.
In order to sweeten your sufferings, we would wash your
wounds with vinegar and dry them with salt. If you
survived this and recovered, they could do something of
the sort again. Or we would make another proposal to
you: let the same instrument be driven into your heart as
you plunged into that of our beloved Empress, but slowly!
Won't you try the experiment? Accursed be the whole of
your remaining life, miserable, cruel monster. May what
you eat do you no good. May your body be a source of
nothing but pain to you, and may your eyes go blind. And
you shall live in eternal darkness. Such is the most ardent

390
 wish of the women and girls of Vienna for such an
infamous wretch as you.

Sisi’s body was lying in state in the hotel. Inquiries were made in
Vienna as to whether it was to be subjected to a post mortem
examination, as required by Swiss law, and Franz Josef replied that the
law of the land must take its course. So, on the afternoon of September
11, Professor Reverdin, Dr. Gosse and Dr. Megévaud appeared to
conduct the autopsy. They examined the body, noted the excellent teeth,
measured the height, and then examined the wound minutely. Fourteen
centimeters below the left collarbone and four centimeters above the
nipple of the left breast, there was a v-shaped wound. Next, the heart was
laid bare and a slight dilation noted. The weapon had entered the heart to
a depth of eighty-five millimeters, breaking the fourth rib, piercing the
lung and the whole of the left ventricle of the heart. But the incision was
so narrow, and the wound so small, that the blood could only drip from
the ventricle into the pericardium slowly, so that the action of the heart
only ceased gradually. This explained why Sisi’s extraordinary energy
and amazing force of will had enabled her to walk another one hundred
and twenty-five paces before she collapsed on board the boat.
To their horror, the Countess Sztáray, Count Kuefstein – the Austrian
Ambassador in Switzerland – and General von Berzeviczy had to be
present at the autopsy as witnesses.
The body was then embalmed, during which process the face changed
greatly, becoming swollen, but the doctors said that before long the
lovely features would regain their former contours. She was now dressed
in black, with her hair arranged as she had usually worn it, and then laid
in her coffin. On the table lay the things that the Empress had always
carried on her person. There were the simple little gold chain with the
wedding ring that Sisi never wore on her hand but around her neck
beneath her dress, the simple leather fan that she always carried, her
electro-plated watch on which was engraved the word “Achilleus,” with
its worn leather strap and buckle, and the bracelet with its many charms,
most of them with some mystic meaning, including a skull, the three-
footed emblem of the sun, the gold hand with forefinger outstretched,
medals of the Blessed Virgin, and Byzantine gold coins. There were also
two lockets, one containing some hair of the Crown Prince and the other
the ninety-first psalm.

391
 And now Sisi started upon her last journey homeward. The whole
Empire was plunged into grief. In Hungary, the sad news had at once
thrown the whole country and its capital into mourning. Portraits of the
Empress draped in crêpe were to be seen everywhere. In Budapest, not a
house was without a black flag, and even the humblest home displayed
its scrap of black material.

Franz Josef was deeply moved when he heard of the grief in Vienna and
the tears of Hungary. “Yes,” he said, “they may well weep. They do not
know what a warm friend they have lost in their Queen.”
The funeral was celebrated with all the stately traditional pomp of the
Spanish ceremonial, against which Sisi could now no longer revolt. The
procession arrived at the entrance of the Imperial vault in the Capuchin
monastery. The crypt was closed. The Controller of the Household struck
three raps on the door and the voice of the Father Superior was heard
from within asking, “Who is there?”
“Elisabeth, Empress and Queen, desires admittance.”
The Emperor and his children stood sobbing beside the coffin. Then
suddenly Valerie’s eyes fell upon that part of the crypt that Sisi had
described to her, where a little light and greenery peeped in through the
narrow window. She heard the birds twittering outside, just as her mother
had described, and sent up the heart-felt prayer, “May she at last find the
peace for which she so ardently longed!”
The Empress’s most faithful friends were also present: Ida Ferenczy,
whom Sisi had loved for her fresh, bright, frank, straightforward nature,
her sound judgment of people, her tact and high-mindedness,
accompanied by a great simplicity of heart. She had carried out the
Empress’s last wishes, one of which was that she should destroy the
Crown Prince’s last letter to his mother.
She turned sobbing to a friend. “I have lost everything,” she said,
“husband, children, family, happiness, contentment, because my dear
Queen was all these to me.”
Marie Festetics stood beside her in tears. “We shall often mourn
together, Ida,” she wrote to Frau von Ferenczy a little later. “We have
had the best of her. We have long, long enjoyed her heart and her soul.
Nobody can deprive us of that, it is our treasure. We have always loved
her, not like so many who first came forward after the dagger had

392
pierced her heart.” Both she and Frau von Ferenczy were in despair at
not having been with their mistress in her final hour.

But the irony of fate did not cease even at her grave. The funeral of this
woman, to whom politics had been odious, gave rise to a conflict that
projected, as it were, a lurid light ahead of it into the gloomy future of
the Empire.
According to traditional custom, the Empress’s coat of arms was
placed by her coffin and under it the inscription, “Elisabeth, Empress of
Austria.”
On the first day, hundreds of thousands of people filed past it, among
them many Hungarians, who at once raised a violent protest, so that on
the same evening the words, “and Queen of Hungary,” were hastily
added.
But now an objection was raised by the Chief Provincial Marshal of
Bohemia, who inquired why the style of “Queen of Bohemia” should not
also be added.
Had the Empress herself been living, she would probably have
answered simply, “Write Elisabeth and nothing more.”
But the Hungarian Chief Minister, Baron Bánffy, lodged a formal
protest against the “tendentious character,” which, he said, had been
given to the funeral ceremonies by their “Austrian stamp,” for the
express purpose of offering an affront to the dignity of the Hungarian
State.
Eighty-two members of Royalty were present at the last obsequies
and the chapel of the Capuchin monastery was not large enough to
contain them all. By a most unfortunate accident, one of the Court
functionaries had to make the deputation from the Hungarian Parliament
fall back to make way for the funeral procession.
“We are here as Hungarians to witness the funeral of our Queen,”
retorted a member of the deputation. And the Chief Ministers of the two
countries, the Ministers of the Imperial House and the Controller of the
Household, had all the difficulty in the world in appeasing the political
storm that arose in consequence of this incident.

Exactly a month after the outrage, Lucheni appeared before his judges.
Forty jurymen had been empanelled, drawn from every walk of life –
electricians, architects, dentists, laundrymen, gardeners, and so forth.

393
The judges entered. There was dead silence in court when Lucheni
appeared.
Vain and theatrical, his one idea was to impress the public. As he
passed the press table, he nodded as if to say, “Well, here I am,” then
turned and smiled at the public thronging the court.
He seemed greatly pleased with the whole proceedings. When he
spoke, his every gesture was calculated, his every word weighed. He
knew that, next morning, they would appear in print in every newspaper
in the world. He was not in the least impressed when he heard that his
mother was still alive and in San Francisco. He continued as proudly as
ever to plead guilty, citing the poverty of his youth among his reasons for
committing the outrage and repeating what he had said in his article: that
he who does not work should not eat.
When the President of the court pointed out discrepancies between
his statements, he answered, “Believe what you like. I am speaking the
truth.”
“Do you feel no remorse?” asked the President:
“On the contrary,” was the reply.
“If you had to do it over again, would you do it?”
“Certainly.”
And Lucheni turned in triumph toward the public to enjoy the
sensation produced by his words. Nor was he content with that as he
blew a kiss to some unknown person sitting in a corner of the room.
Then the Procurator General, the distinguished jurist Navazza, rose to
make his final speech.
“This man,” he said, “has sacrificed his freedom for life to the wild
joy that he is flaunting today. He considers that all those who have no
definite profession should be destroyed. He believes them to be the
happy people in this life. And the wretched man has no idea that in every
class of society tears follow close upon laughter and joy. Ah, Lucheni,
great is the satisfaction this has given your ambition. You committed a
sensational act when you stabbed a woman of sixty in the heart with your
file. But your cowardice was proportionate to the ease with which you
struck the blow.”
The counsel for the defense found nothing better to say than that, had
she lived, the Empress would have begged a pardon for Lucheni.
The verdict was imprisonment for life.

394
 When it was announced, Lucheni shouted in a loud voice, “Long live
anarchy! Death to aristocracy!”

Immediately after his condemnation, Lucheni again wrote to the Prince

d’Aragona, thanking him for the favorable report of him that he had
given to the court and promising that he would be the best of prisoners,
just as he, the captain, had once said he was the best of soldiers.
“If I was capable of committing a murder, I would succeed in this too,
now that I am a living corpse,” he wrote.
And, for two years, Lucheni’s conduct was indeed excellent. He was
only indignant at being placed in the same cells as common criminals, as
he regarded himself as being a political prisoner and was very touchy
when he thought he had been unjustly treated, to the point of
contemplating suicide.
In February 1900 he had been given a box of sardines, the key to
which, by an oversight, had not been removed, so he made it into a
weapon with which he intended to kill himself.
On February 20, 1900, he was seized with a desire to cause violence
while Perrin, the Director of the prison, happened to be with him, and
threatened him with this weapon, which had to be taken from him by the
warder. He was given ten days in the cells as punishment, after which his
conduct was again irreproachable and he was treated comparatively well
But he grew more and more touchy and nervous. One of the warders
was often drunk and always smelt of wine. On October 16, 1910,
Lucheni said to him as he entered the cell, “You are a drunkard. You
always stink of spirits.” An altercation arose and the warder complained
to Monsieur Fernet, the current Director of the prison.
He concluded, on inquiry, that Lucheni was not altogether in the
wrong, so both parties were punished. Lucheni was placed in solitary
confinement and not allowed to work, which he felt terribly. He kept
shouting, “I only told the truth,” and threw all the things in his cell that
he could out of the window. He was then placed in a dark cell.
About six o’clock a warder going the rounds heard him, still shouting.
That evening Monsieur Fernet visited his cell and found him dead. He
had hanged himself with his leather belt.

Lucheni believed himself to have been an instrument of punishment and

judgment, but how little he knew his victim! Would he have murdered

395
her had he guessed how often this woman, this “rich” and “privileged”
person, had longed for death – a death that would be swift and painless,
that would take place far from her loved ones to avoid giving them pain,
and come to her, not in her bed, but amid the beauties of Nature which
she loved so much?
And now, through his action, this had become a reality, a terrible,
tragic reality. Carmen Sylva was indeed right. Sisi would have found
excuses for Lucheni. With her characteristic irony – an irony that was
sometimes so cheerful, sometimes so sad – with that charming little hint
of laughter in the turn of her lip that always captivated everybody, she
would have said, “Well, Lucheni, you have struck a shrewd blow, just as
I would have wished it.”

396
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 23
Chapter 14
Chapter 15

397