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elizabeth, empress of austria and queen of hungary. SOMETIMES think there is no woman less known to us, as she really is, than Elizabeth, Empress of Austria and Queen of Hungary. How little do we hear of her or read of her, save that she is fond of her horse, and is a lover of the chase? This is undoubtedly the truth, but it is not the whole truth, and we may easily get the impression that this sovereign cares for little else than her horse; has no other accomplishments than her equestrianism, and lacks those gentle qualities so lovable in every woman, whether her station be high or low. In truth, Elizabeth, in her nature, is the furthest possible from an Amazon. On the contrary, she possesses the most refined of tastes, is reserved and quiet in manner, and in one sense, is excessively shy and timid. She rides like the wind, she is fearless in the hunt, and she sees to it personally that her horses are properly broken. It is on her horse she seeks relief from the life of a ceremonious court; it is with her horse she takes refuge from the public gaze and homage, from which she shrinks with a timidity and distaste she has never been able to overcome, and which seems almost unnatural. Elizabeth is the daughter of a Bavarian duke. Her father, Maximilian Joseph, was a man of high rank in the army, but found his greatest pleasure in books. He wrote several novels, some poetry, and many sketches of travel. He lived a somewhat quiet life, and brought up his large family after the fashion of a country gentleman whose means were not unlimited.

There were three sons and five daughters, all of whom received the most thorough education. Their home was in a most picturesque and rugged region, where they hunted, swam, and spent much time in the open air. There was born and fostered in Elizabeth a passionate love for out-door exercise. Her life was that of any country girl, and she wore the simplest of toilettes, her best attire in the summer the plainest of white muslin dresses, which were frequently laundered. Many an American girl is brought up in the country in greater luxury than was this future Empress, and wears often at a garden party a toilette the cost of which would cover the value of the entire season’s wardrobe of this girl growing up to be a queen. In 1854, Franz Joseph, the handsome young Emperor of Austria, came into the neighborhood to hunt the chamois, and at once fell madly in love with this young girl. He was twenty-three years of age, she scarcely sixteen. Her figure was superb, her beauty of the most exquisitely delicate type, and every movement was full of a still childish grace. There was a peculiar fascination in her extreme shyness, of which she was rarely rid, except when in the forests or climbing the mountain sides. It is whispered that an older sister sought to gain the Emperor’s affections, the same of whom it is said that later the King of Bavaria sought to marry, but who finally chose to become a mere duchess. woman is not so beautiful as her illustrious sister, but carries herself more like the traditional Queen. Franz Joseph made Elizabeth his Empress in April, 1854, and transplanted her from the country life in the highlands to the court at Vienna. Then came a trial’ such as few women have been subjected to. A mere child, she was even unacquainted with the cold etiquette of the Hofburg, and knew absolutely nothing of her new duties.

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Nothing could be more uncongenial than her strange surroundings, and she often wept for the companionship of her brothers and sisters, and the happy days with them when she knew no restraint. The Emperor’s mother, the Archduchess Sophie, an energetic, unscrupulous woman, reigned at the court, exerting a much more powerful influence than the Emperor himself. Elizabeth had no desire to usurp her, and was content to remain second, to the annoyance of many at the Hofburg, who felt uncomfortably the iron hand of Sophie, and thought to mould the new Empress. They tried to make her assume the duties of her new position, but with little success. To the mistress of the robes she stoutly declared she would not wear a new toilette and new shoes every day in the year, and she frequently fled from her tormentors, weeping, to her husband, who shielded her. To this day the Emperor is severely censured by his people for having so indulged the Empress at the start, and for not having compelled her to conform to the stiff, old Spanish etiquette of his court. But for this love and devotion of the husband whom she idolized, it would have gone hard indeed with the child Empress, who often asserted: “I am yo ur wife. I do not belong to the people. I wish you were not an emperor, but my husband only!” The Emperor, no doubt, often protected her, and permitted her to transgress court rule, against his wiser judgment; for no one knows better than a ruler, how the people rightfully exact personal sacrifice, and that a sovereign belongs to his subjects. Many amusing stories are told of the intractability of the young Empress, who ended all argument and discussion by appealing to her husband, who denied her nothing. At first she took little interest in politics, and never any in the intrigues of the court, and naturally called out little sympathy from those about her, whose advice she totally ignored. But the Viennese, once they saw her, were wild over her beauty, and her shyness touched their hearts. This very adoration was another trial, for they demanded that she show herself frequently, and receive their public homage, In the first year of her married life she became a mother. A little girl, named for the Archduchess Sophie, came to her and absorbed her. She was then barely seventeen. She had always taken a deep interest in the Emperor’s conflicts with the Hungarians. The romantic story of this unhappy

people touched her; their valor and daring, their untiring struggles for freedom, and their life in the saddle on the great plains, roused her sympathies. She learned their difficult language in a surprisingly short time, and, with her husband, made an imperial journey to Buda-Peste in 1857. There, in the old castle of Buda, the twoyear-old little Sophie died. This was her first real grief, and nearly broke her heart. Since that time she has worn no color. Her toilettes are invariably black, white, mauve, or gray. For years she could not endure the thought of Hungary, so sad were the associations, though when the Emperor was made king, and she queen of the Magyars, she again became fond of land and people and has spent many happy days there latterly. A former aide-de-camp of the Emperor, who was with the royal couple in the first years of their wedded life, has told me many charming stories of the lovely girl, who seemed never impressed by her exalted position, and whose careless, girlish happiness was only disturbed when her royal state was forced upon her. This gentleman related to me a touching incident which occurred after the funeral of her child. The Empress had borne herself with wonderful composure during the long and trying ceremonies of the state funeral, where she had been the observed of all observers. As she reached the broad, white marble steps of the palace, and just as the ladies and gentlemen of the court had halted on either side to allow their majesties to pass up, a large Newfoundland dog came bounding down to meet them. The Empress, with a long, heart-rending cry, threw herself on the marble stair-case, and, putting her arms about the animal, buried her face in its fur and began to sob aloud. The dog had been a play-fellow of her baby’s, and seemed to understand and share her grief. The whole court was in tears, the ladies of honor weeping audibly, and for some time no one disturbed the girlish, black-robed figure, and all forgot that she was more than a bereaved mother. The Emperor, deeply moved, at last raised her, put his arm about her, and, followed by the dog, led her to her apartments. The dog, until it died, which was not long after, was her constant companion, ever lying at her feet beneath the table at the state dinners, unknown to the guests. Another Austrian officer related to me the circumstances of his first meeting with

OUTING FOR APRIL. the girl Empress, into whose presence he came when a very young man at a court ball. Her wonderful beauty, entranced by the royal robes, and the dazzling crown jewels, so impressed him that he stood speechless before her and so completely lost his presence of mind that a brother officer led him away. The Emperor, more amused than annoyed, readily forgave this extraordinary breach of etiquette. At first Elizabeth yielded to the request of the Emperor and the solicitation of the court, and showed herself frequently to the Viennese. She bowed graciously to all who saluted her, and gracefully submitted to the homage shown her by the common people in the public street. She is described as being at that time of very haughty mien, because of a manner, readily mistaken for hauteur, which was in fact assumed to cover her timidity. The only indication of her shyness and discomfort was the incessant biting of her under lip, a painful habit she has even now. It is the outward expression of the inward chafing against publicity. Instead of becoming accustomed to the life of an empress, it grew more distasteful, and she gradually withdrew herself more and more to the society of her children, three of whom are now living. First she disappointed Vienna by driving in a closed carriage, then by wearing a veil, and finally by her non-attendance regularly at the theater. She refused to recognize that the Viennese had any claim of this kind upon her. In the religious festivals at the ceremony of the washing of the feet and the chapters of the Golden Fleece, and St. Stephens, and in the Fête Dieu, former empresses had taken part, wearing their most splendid attire. One by one, from these pageants, where she was part of a great spectacle for the people, she has withdrawn herself. But in all this time she has been a regular visitor at the hospitals, has personally given comfort by her presence there at the bedsides of the sick and dying, has helped the poor by organizing systematic methods for their relief, and has improved greatly the domestic service of Austrian households, bettering in their relations both mistress and servant. The most splendid of all church festivals is the Fête Dieu, which takes place annually in all Catholic countries. In Vienna, the Corpus Christi procession is one of the finest in the world. The Emperor and Empress have always walked in this procession attended by the whole court, gor-

87 geously appareled. ‘This festival is too well known to be described here. All Vienna is decorated with flowers and banners—the whole population is in the streets, The Fête Dieu is the idol of the Viennese heart; it was a day of torture to the EmPress, and a few years ago she ceased to appear on that occasion. What scenes she may have passed through at the Hofburg before she made it manifest that she was not to be turned from her decision, we can only guess at. Vienna will never forgive her for robbing their best beloved day of so much of its luster, and, again, they assert that the Emperor should not permit it. Moreover, it is said that the Emperor has lost much of his former influence with her, from having forfeited her respect, and that much she does can be attributed to disappointment. This I give as the gossip of the kingdom. She certainly leads a life very independent of the Emperor and his court, and little is now expected of her, except that her subjects know she will never forget the sick and poor among them. Those who saw her in the last Corpus Christi festival in which she appeared will never forget her. She was at the height of her beauty, and walked with a half-defiant carriage of the head, as if all the time protesting, the whole way nervously biting the under lip, and keeping her eyes cast down upon the ground. Following the palanquin over the Host, came the Emperor in his imperial robes, attended by his gentlemen, the Empress behind with her ladies-inwaiting, all magnificently attired. Elizabeth wore white moire décolleté, her arms bare, and her long train borne by pages. Her throat, corsage, and wrists blazed with jewels, and a diadem of emeralds and diamonds held in place her long, white lace veil, embroidered in gold thread. No wonder the common people crowded to look upon such magnificence, and held their breaths as she passed by, and is it small wonder, that, with her nature! she shrank from such a display? On this occasion, the Emperor, as if cognizant of the rebellion within her, took every opportunity, as when turning the corners of the streets, or kneeling at the saying of the gospels, to cast back encouraging glances. It seems to me that, while not overlooking the duty the wife of a ruling sovereign owes his subjects, as a woman, Elizabeth draws deeply on the sympathy of every other woman of sensitive nature, who can find in her feeling and course something

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else than mere selfishness. Those who know her best, excuse her as far as possible, because of this inborn dislike of publicity. I fancy the Viennese are the more dissatisfied, because of their genuine love and admiration for her which inspires in them the desire to look upon her. It was in the troubled days of 1866, when Franz Joseph was away and there was war, and threatened disaster to Austria, that Elizabeth left alone, began her habit of long horseback riding early in the morning. She was awake before daylight. To relieve the tedium of the long, dragging, anxious hours, she sought the open air. Always a good horsewoman, she acquired a new love for the exercise. Time passed more quickly when on her horse than when otherwise employed, and she at last came to spend the greater part of her husband’s absence in the saddle. She found a consolation and peace in her intercourse with nature, which she could not find in the palace, where there was only rumors of war, and. the freedom of the saddle was the widest contrast to the irksome and hated etiquette of the courtlife. Aside from her love of exercise and the open air, she has a passionate love for animals, and naturally came to have the finest stud in the world. She had rings with saw dust, built in connection with each of her palaces, in which to amuse herself by feats of horsemanship, and as places for exercise in stormy weather. That she has become the intimate of circus riders and English grooms, is a cruel libel. True, famous équestriennes have been asked to her rings to entertain and teach her, and she has always English grooms in her service, because of her fondness for the language, which she has spoken perfectly from childhood. She is, indeed, many hours each day in her saddle, but several of these are early hours when other women sleep, and I cannot learn that she neglects her children, nor the improvement of her mind. Possibly, some of the other hours in which Elizabeth rides, are employed by many who condemn her, in dawdling over useless needle-work, and in gossip. I am not sure that this Empress does not occupy her time as profitably as do the ladies of any other European court. Her horse is now her passion, but how harmless a passion compared to that of many an empress and queen, as history has taught us! Through Elizabeth no danger has come to her kingdom; she has exerted no influence except for good; her worst enemies extol her good deeds among the sick and

lowly. She rarely rides into the country, that she does not bestow kind words upon some weary laborer, or leave gold and encouragement at some poor Cottage. Though we hear that she “lives on her horse,” she is en courant with the current literature of three languages, and has always with her a lady—at present a Hungarian—to read aloud. She is entirely in sympathy with, and helpful in, her daughter Valerie’s literary aspirations; she is clever at lace-making, is a fine linguist, and has a thorough musical education. She has, too, such discernment into character, and such knowledge of human nature, that the Crown Prince relies upon her judgment of the men who fawn upon him, and seek his intimate acquaintance, and is guided by her in his friendships. Tact, Elizabeth cannot be said to posThis was shown in her much-condemned hunting tour through Ireland at the time of the famine, though she scattered blessings as she went, and in her openly-expressed love for the Hungarians, who regard the Viennese with a contempt that is more than half hatred. The chivalry of the Hungarians pleases her. She is their queen, and loves to go among them. They never criticize her, and she gratefully accepts this kindness. Her daring horseback feats delight the Magyar, himself first among horsemen. The unfettered out-door life on the plains, the roaming troubadors and roving banditti, the weird, wild, Gypsy music, and the but half-smothered mutiny and rebellion against foreign restraint appeal to her love of the romantic and freedom. When Deak died, she went to Pest and wept over his remains, and with her own hands made the laurel wreath she placed upon his coffin. As a coronation present, the Hungarians, after an old custom, presented her the ancient and historic castle of Gödöllö, on the Alföld. She loves this old estate, and spends much time there, always accompanied by her daughter, the Archduchess Valerie, who has been educated by an Hungarian bishop. Here, in the garden, she may be often seen, her wonderful hair loosened and floating to her knees, listening to the reading of some English poem, or playing upon her favorite instrument, the either. When the impulse seizes her, she quickly changes her dress for her habit, either of black, with gold lace, or gray and silver, and goes flying across the beautiful Hungarian country. She is always well attended, as is becoming an empress, and

OUTING FOR APRIL. takes with her a large retinue when she leaves Vienna. Her preference is for English stock, though she owns also many Arabian horses, and some of Russian breed. She has improved the working horse of the present, and taught her people to love and care for their animals instead of maltreating them. As I have myself been witness, she has a groom severely punished who strikes her horse, or who incites fear with the whip. The last time I saw the Empress was at Heidelberg. She was in the royal train, composed of ebonized railway carriages, the double-headed eagles of the House of Hapsburg emblazoned in gold upon their sides. She was on her way to consult a distinguished physician! for she was suffering severely at that time from sciatica, a misfortune which prevents her riding as much as has been her habit. She is bronzed from exposure, and the delicacy of her wonderful complexion is gone, but she is yet a very beautiful woman, with a step as elastic and light as that of her own grand-child, and she sits her horse superbly. I saw her in the act of tenderly comforting a poor invalid, who had been brought to her in an invalid chair, from

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which she could not rise. Beside her stood the Princess of Wales, compassion and pity in her sweet face. It was a lovely picture. A very simple little act of the Empress seemed to bring her very near to all other women. As she drew on her glove, a maid in waiting stood by, with a gold glove buttoner in hand, ready to assist her imperial mistress. Elizabeth felt in the rich masses of her hair, drew forth a hair-pin, and buttoned her gloves herself. It is true that the Empress of Austria loves her horse and has a passion for riding. “She loves her horse more than she loves herself,” say the Viennese, who are chagrined that she does not feel more her importance as their Empress. Empresses have had greater faults than this, and faults that have been more disastrous to their empires. Had Eugenie loved her horse better than herself, France might have been better off to-day, at least in territory, and she might not be a widowed, childless, woman. Had poor Carlotta loved her horse better than herself, we should, in all probability, not write the pathetic little adjective before her name, there would have been no martyred Mexicans, and Maximillan might yet be alive. Margery Deane.

one year ago. ’Twas just a year ago to-day, The robins blithe were calling, And sweet arbutus lined the way— To-day the snows are falling. Then she was true, and life was dear, With song and fragrance flowing; To-day she should be with me here, It should be spring—’tis snowing. Thed Pershing.