The only court ceremony at which the Empress appeared after the death of her son was on the occasion of the visit of the present Czar and Czarina of Russia to Vienna. Her presence at the state reception given in their honor excited even more interest and curiosity than did that of the young Czarina herself, and all eyes were fixed upon her as she entered on the arm of the Russian Emperor, smiling and bowing graciously to those about her. She was dressed in black, as usual, but looked twenty years younger than any of her contemporaries. In spite of all her sorrows and sufferings she could still be truthfully called the most beautiful woman at her court. But her thoughts were continually straying from her guests and from the brilliant scene about her.
“There often seems to be a thick veil between me and the world, as if I were masquerading in the costume of an Empress,” she once remarked. “When I am with people I only show the part of me that we have in common, and they are surprised that I am so much like them when I talk about the weather and the price of candy. It is like taking a dress out of the wardrobe and putting it on for certain occasions.”
In 1896 Hungary celebrated her thousandth anniversary. Elizabeth was even more miserable than usual at the time, and did not feel that she could be present, but it was urged that her absence would cast a shadow over the festivities, and, ill as she was both in body and mind, she finally was persuaded and appeared beside her husband on the throne. Dressed all in black, with a long veil worn Hungarian fashion over her hair, she sat pale and motionless as a statue, her long eyelashes drooping and an expression of unspeakable sadness on her lovely face. Not a muscle moved as the speaker began his address of welcome. She seemed neither to see nor hear until he spoke the word “Elizabeth” and a mighty shout went up from the whole assembly that seemed to shake the marble walls of the throne room. Then the majestic head was lowered slightly, almost imperceptibly, but with wonderful grace and charm in acknowledgment of this tribute. Again the cheers rose louder than before and lasted several minutes, even the highest nobles of the kingdom waving their tufted kalpaks high in the air.
The Queen’s head sank, her deadly pallor giving place to a faint flush. Her eyes opened wide with a flash of their old brilliancy, and a tear rolled slowly down her cheek. It was plain that the affection between Elizabeth and her Hungarian subjects had undergone no change. The speaker went on with his address, the flush slowly faded from her cheeks, and soon she sat beside the Emperor, a Mater Dolorosa once more. It was her last visit to Hungary and her last appearance on the throne.
Chapter XX
Death of the Empress
The Empress Elizabeth had no fear of death, though the thought of it was often in her mind. “I am ready to die,” she used to say; “all I ask is that I may not live to suffer.” She had a presentiment that she was to die an unnatural death and believed it would be by drowning. Sometimes when walking along the shore or on the deck of her yacht she would say: “The sea will have me some day; I know I belong to it.” Her forebodings were destined to be fulfilled, though in a manner that neither she nor any one else could have foreseen, for the life that began so like a summer idyl ended in a tragedy.
In the Spring of 1897 a terrible fate befell her sister Sophie while assisting at a charity bazar held in Paris by the ladies of the French aristocracy. About four o’clock in the afternoon of the fourth of May the lamp of a cinematograph exploded, setting fire to some draperies. The hall was a flimsily built structure, and the flames spread with such rapidity that in a few moments the whole place was a sea of fire and the greater part of those present were unable to escape. One hundred and thirty people perished in this frightful disaster, among them the Duchess d’Alençon, Ludwig of Bavaria’s former fiancée. It was known that she must have perished, for her wedding ring was found among the ruins soon after the conflagration, though it was not till some days later that her body was found and identified.
The Queen of Naples and Mathilde of Trani were now Elizabeth’s only surviving sisters, and of these the latter was her favorite. They had many traits in common, particularly their aversion to society and their love of travel. The Countess of Trani, who spent most of her time at hotels and watering-places, usually went by the modest title of “Fräulein Nelly Schmidt.” The last Christmas of Elizabeth’s life the two sisters spent together in Paris, but an acute attack of neuritis forced the Empress to hasten southward, and taking her yacht Miramar at Marseilles, they went to San Remo. Here they stayed for two months, leaving on the first of March for Territet in Switzerland, where they parted never to meet again.
Elizabeth was fond of returning to familiar places, and Lake Geneva was one of her favorite spots. From Territet she used to go every day by rail to Glion and from there on foot to Mont de Caux, accompanied only by one of her ladies or her reader, a young man named Frederick Barker.
After a six weeks’ stay in Switzerland she returned to Vienna and went with the Emperor to Lainz. Never had her mind appeared so clouded as now. The veil of melancholia had settled over her thicker and heavier than ever. Her glance was restless, there was an unspeakable weariness in her expression, and hard and bitter lines had appeared about her mouth. Constant suffering made life a torment to her and she could find no rest day or night.