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How the talk between mother and daughter really went and whether Ludovika’s and Sophie’s recollections are to be believed must remain an open question. When Ludovika was later asked whether the girl’s feelings had actually been considered in this decision, she always gave the same answer: “One does not send the Emperor of Austria packing.”
¹⁷

*

Each of the nine Bavarian sisters had at one time or another suffered from a broken heart. Each of them knew that, as an eligible princess, she was a political pawn and had no choice but to accept the man selected for her. In order not to confuse the young girls, not to plunge them into conflicts, the reading of love stories was strictly forbidden at the Bavarian court. Even the German classics were banned for the same reason.

Ludovika herself had been an outstanding beauty in her youth. Some even went so far as to claim that she had been far more beautiful than any of her daughters, including Elisabeth. She had suffered from a love affair with Prince Miguel of Braganza, later King of Portugal, whom she was not allowed to marry for political reasons. It was the family that chose the marriage with her cousin Max. He told her frankly that he did not love her and was marrying her merely because he was afraid of his forceful grandfather. He had been hopelessly in love with a nonaristocratic woman, whom he was forbidden to marry for reasons of rank.

The marriage between Max and Ludovika was unhappy from the very first day. Ludovika later told her children that she had spent her first wedding anniversary weeping from morning to night. Only gradually did she learn to tolerate her husband’s restlessness and his many affairs and to remain alone with the growing brood of children. Much later, after she was widowed, she told her grandchildren that, starting with their golden wedding anniversary, Max had been good to her. Fifty bitter years had preceded that day. Elisabeth had grown up hearing her mother’s complaints about the unhappy marriage, and she had often heard Ludovika’s bitter statement, “When one is married, one feels so abandoned.”

Archduchess Sophie was hardly more fortunate. She was forced to marry Archduke Franz Karl, “weak in body and mind,” brother of the ailing Emperor Ferdinand. In Bavaria, it was said that Sophie had spent many nights in tears in despair and fear of this marriage. When her governess reported this state of affairs to Sophie’s mother, she was unmoved and replied, “What do you want? The matter was decided at the Congress of Vienna!”

When Sophie saw that her fate had been irrevocably sealed, she
courageously
declared that from now on she would be happy with the
Archduke
.
Emperor Franz told her that “given his son’s condition, she would herself have to handle everything.” And so she did, becoming an
independent,
energetic woman. She loved her good-natured husband “like a child that has to be taken care of,” and she raised her four sons well. As a young woman, she enjoyed a close friendship with Napoleon’s son, the Duke of Reichstadt, whom she nursed touchingly during his fatal illness. Viennese gossip turned the young man into the father of her second son, Archduke Ferdinand Max. In all probability, this gossip had no basis in fact; but it does show that the pretty Archduchess was considered quite capable of a romantic interlude.

Thus, like most princesses of their time, the mothers of the young couple had been forced to renounce love. Of course, they did their duty—even in tears. They could not help but regard the engagement in Bad Ischl as a rare instance of great good fortune: Franz Joseph loved his future bride, as was plain to see. He was young and good-looking, not feebleminded like his father and uncle. He was the Emperor of Austria. The young girl would have no difficulty adjusting to her situation, which, compared to the lots of both mothers, was enviable. No, really, “one does not send the Emperor of Austria packing.”

Archduchess Sophie was still entirely caught up in eighteenth-century thinking. She had no high opinion of individualism, let alone emotion, as an element in court politics—in contrast to her daughter-in-law-to-be. On one occasion, Sophie wrote to Princess Metternich that one should not believe “that individual personalities have any significance.” She had
always
noticed that one person was replaced by another, without making the slightest difference in the world.
¹⁸
Now, whether the future Empress was named Helene or Elisabeth made little difference, according to this view. Both came from the same family, were equal in rank, were both Catholic and Sophie’s nieces—and that last was all that mattered in the end.

Ludovika communicated Sisi’s acceptance to her sister Sophie in writing. On August 19, at eight o’clock in the morning, the Emperor beaming with happiness, appeared at his bride’s rooms at the hotel. Ludovika wrote about the meeting to a relative: “I left him alone with Sisi, since he wanted to speak to her himself, and when he came back to my room, he looked quite pleased, quite cheerful, and she did too—as is proper for a happy bride.”
¹⁹

Ludovika’s excitement was every bit as great as her gratitude to Sophie: “It is such prodigious joy, and yet such a weighty and important situation, that I am very moved in every respect. She is so young, so inexperienced, but I hope that forbearance will be shown to such extreme youth! … Aunt
Sophie is so very good and kind to her, and what a consolation for me to be able to hand her over to such a dear sister as a second mother.”

Nevertheless, Elisabeth later always referred to this situation with great bitterness, saying, “Marriage is an absurd arrangement. One is sold as a fifteen-year-old child and makes a vow one does not understand and then regrets for thirty years or more, and which one can never undo again.”
²⁰

In August 1853, however, those who were present looked on this imperial engagement, in Count Hübner’s words, as “a simple, lovely, and noble idyll.”
²¹

The young couple left the hotel arm in arm to breakfast with the Archduchess and of course the rest of the family, all of whom observed the pair with interest and approval—with the exception of Archduke Karl Ludwig, who had lost the love of his youth. Franz Joseph took this occasion to introduce his adjutants to the fifteen-year-old girl, especially Karl Count Grünne, whose judgment he valued very highly, including his views in matters concerning women.

At eleven o’clock, the party repaired in a body to the parish church. The congregation watched reverently as Archduchess Sophie held back at the door, granting precedence to her young niece: Sisi was pledged to an emperor, and from this time on, she stood higher in rank than the emperor’s mother. With this noble gesture, Sophie expressed her respect for the imperial hierarchy. Sisi, to be sure, hardly understood. Self-conscious and bashful, she entered the church, unpleasantly affected by the attention she aroused. Sophie: “The priest welcomed us with holy water, his eyes filled with tears! On the moment we entered the church, the national anthem was struck up.” After the benediction, Emperor Franz Joseph gently took the girl by the hand, led her to the priest, and requested of him, “I beseech you, Reverend, bless us, this is my bride.”

The priest’s blessing was followed by the good wishes of all those present on this historic occasion.
²²
Count Grünne then made a speech in honor of the young couple. Weckbecker: “The Princess was so moved and
self-conscious
that she was barely able to respond.”
²³
Everyone was in a state of high emotion. The Emperor found it difficult to take his future bride away from the hearty crowd.

Duchess Ludovika, however, was so worried about her daughter’s future that even on this day she complained to Weckbecker, who was a total stranger to her, “with how much trepidation she looked on the hard task facing her daughter Elisabeth, since she was ascending the throne literally straight from the nursery. She also harbored concern because of the severe
judgments of the ladies of the Viennese aristocracy.” That these fears were only too justified soon became evident.

Dinner was taken in Hallstatt. Afterward, the party went for a drive. After the previous day’s rain, the landscape was ravishing. Mountains and cliffs were bathed in the light of the setting sun. The lake glimmered. The Emperor took Sisi’s hand and explained the sights to her. Queen Elise of Prussia was enchanted: “It’s so lovely, so much young happiness in such a wonderful landscape.”
²⁴
Sophie reported to her sister Marie of Saxony in a letter how tenderly the Emperor had wrapped his betrothed in his military cloak, so fearful was he that she might catch a chill, and how he had confessed to his mother, “I can’t tell you how happy I am!”

That night Bad Ischl was lit up by ten thousand candles and by lamps in the Austrian and Bavarian colors. On the Siriuskogl, multicolored lanterns sketched a classical temple in the sky, enclosing the initials
FJ
and
E
in a bridal wreath. This was the first time that young Sisi experienced the jubilation of a benevolent, loyal people gathered in the streets to welcome its future Empress.

The Emperor’s happiness is clearly evident in every report on those days in Bad Ischl. Of Sisi’s feelings we unfortunately know very little, except that she was very embarrassed, very quiet, and constantly in tears. Sophie commented to her sister, “You cannot imagine how charming Sisi is when she cries!” One party followed on the heels of the last. The young girl was presented with gifts from all sides. The Emperor gave her jewelry with precious gems, among them a magnificent blossoming tendril made of diamonds and emeralds, which she could braid into her hair. Sisi, who was visibly growing more elegant, stood at the center of Bad Ischl’s social life. She was the cynosure of all eyes; her charm was widely praised.

The young Emperor was gentle, circumspect, and generous in the consideration he showed his childlike fiancée. To give her pleasure, he even had a swing put up in the garden of the summer estate, and the girl used it with childish glee. Since he saw how much Sisi was afraid of every new strange face, the Emperor arranged for the magnificent coach, drawn by five piebald horses, to be driven not by a coachman but by his adjutant general, Grünne.
²⁵
He had noticed that the girl had already grown
accustomed
to this man, the Emperor’s closest confidant, and that she was fond of him.

Grünne was forty-five years old at that time, and one of the most influential men in the monarchy, an important member of the widely deplored Kamarilla at the Viennese court. As head of the military
chancellery,
he was the top officer in the Austrian army after the emperor. Grünne accompanied his young master on all trips, was his closest political adviser, and had unique insight into the Emperor’s private life. To this day it is asserted in Viennese society that it was Grünne who arranged romantic adventures for the young Emperor. (After all, Franz Joseph was hardly an inexperienced stripling by the time he became engaged to be married.) The fact that Sisi trusted Grünne from the first gave the Emperor much satisfaction, and he took pleasure in making his adjutant general the
guardian
angel of his young love during these coach rides à trois.

Three more balls were scheduled in Bad Ischl. According to Sophie’s diary, Sisi continued to be bashful and tractable. When Countess Sophie Esterházy, who was soon to head the Empress’s household, extended her good wishes, saying, “We are so grateful to Your Royal Highness for making the Emperor so happy,” Sisi replied, “You will have to be very patient with me for a while.”
²⁶

Unlike the prospective bride, the rest of the young people in the imperial family were in high spirits. During the cotillion they set off rockets and firecrackers; poor Ludovika, whose nerves were badly strained, fled in horror to her sister’s bedroom. The Duchess had still not decided whether to be pleased at the great honor granted her daughter or distressed at the prospect of the emotional burdens in store for the fifteen-year-old girl.

Helene was another source of worry to her mother. The girl was upset and unhappy. She was already eighteen—rather old, therefore, for the preliminaries of a new match. Even Sophie’s magnificent gift, a cross of diamonds and turquoise, and the assurance that Sophie continued to find her extraordinarily charming, could not console Helene. She longed to be back home in Bavaria.

So did Duchess Ludovika, who wrote about her concern to her Bavarian relatives: “Life here is extremely busy. Sisi especially is not at all
accustomed
to it yet, especially the late hours. I am pleasantly surprised at the way she becomes resigned to speaking to so many strangers and that, in spite of her embarrassment, she maintains such calm.”
²⁷

The bride’s father, Duke Max, was informed of the engagement by telegram, as was the King of Bavaria. As head of the Wittelsbach family, the King’s official approval of the engagement of his cousin was required.

Franz Joseph’s letter to Czar Nicholas is remarkable, vouchsafing as it does an intimacy and affection between the two sovereigns that goes a long way toward explaining the Czar’s subsequent disappointment in Franz
Joseph’s attitude during the Crimean War. “In the rapture of my joy, dear precious friend, I make haste to speak to you of my happiness. I say my happiness, because I am convinced that my bride has all the virtues and all those properties of mind and heart that will make me happy.”
²⁸

Finally, papal dispensation for the marriage had to be applied for; the bride and groom were, after all, first cousins. No one seems to have been concerned about this circumstance. Elisabeth’s parents, too, were closely related—both were members of the Wittelsbach family, and second
cousins.
Nor, given the state of medical knowledge at the time, did anyone realize that the children of this imperial marriage, especially the hoped-for crown prince, would one day have to bear the full burden of the
Wittelsbach
heritage as a result of this intermingling of family members.