“Oh, yes, I have four grandchildren,” said the Empress, “and to prove it I will come again soon and buy some toys for the other three. You may send them to my daughter, the Princess Gisela in Munich.”
The poor shop-keeper was dumfounded and humbly apologized for his rudeness.
“You were not rude,” said Elizabeth kindly; “on the contrary, you were very flattering.”
She was usually regarded as somewhat eccentric in Amsterdam, from her habit of always holding a fan before her face in the street, and once a street urchin ran up to her and snatched it away, crying, “Let me see your face!” But in spite of the unpleasant experiences which her incognito occasionally created, she could never be induced to abandon it and was much displeased when people did not respect her wishes in this matter. When one of the servants at a Spanish hotel, where she had registered as “Frau Folna of Corfu,” addressed her as “Your Highness,” she retorted sharply, “There are no Highnesses in my apartments.”
She would often start off on the spur of the moment to see some work of art of which she had heard without telling any of her suite where they were going. Her Greek teacher, Professor Rhousso Rhoussopoulos, relates that on one occasion when the Empress was staying at Wiesbaden for the baths, he suddenly received orders to get ready to accompany herself and the Archduchess Marie Valerie on a journey, and not until they reached the railway station did he learn that their destination was Frankfort-on-the-Main, where Elizabeth wanted to see Thorwaldsen’s reliefs and Danecker’s “Ariadne,” which were in the Rothschild collection there. Luncheon had been ordered for them at the station restaurant at Frankfort. The Empress was in high spirits, and taking her daughter’s arm, walked up and down, watching the people and enjoying the bustle of the station. She was delighted that no one recognized her and ate the first part of her luncheon with great relish. But when the second course arrived it was specially served on gold plate with extra attendants; evidently her identity had been discovered. Instantly her cheerfulness vanished and she hastily finished the meal in order to escape as soon as possible. There was nothing she disliked so much as being stared at.
As Professor Rhoussopoulos was walking with her one day in a North German city, she suddenly exclaimed:
“Look how that woman across the street is staring at us! What do you suppose it means?”
“Probably it is only a bad habit she has, your Majesty,” replied the professor; but before the words were out of his mouth the Empress had rushed across the street and the next moment the two women were in each other’s arms. It was her sister, the Countess of Trani, who was almost as fond of travelling as Elizabeth herself.
Wherever she went the Empress was perpetually at warfare with the police authorities whose duty it was to watch over her safety. She resorted to all sorts of devices to elude and mislead them, and their task was no easy one. Once when she and the Emperor were staying at Mentone, she sent for the chief of police there and told him that it annoyed her exceedingly to be continually followed about by detectives and she wished it stopped. The officer replied that he was compelled to perform his duties, and if it displeased Her Majesty there was nothing left for him but to resign his position.
“No, no!” said the Empress. “Remain in Mentone, by all means, and devote yourself to protecting my husband, for his life is most necessary to his subjects. As for me, what am I? A mere stranger and far too unimportant to attract any attention.”