Chapter 1 - Famous deaths

On a December day in 1892, in Trieste, a young Habsburg Archduke boarded the steamer Empress Elizabeth to embark on a Grand Tour around the world. The Archduke originally planned to travel incognito, but throughout his journey, he was received and entertained by members of the highest nobility.¹ He was accompanied by three servants, two cooks, a gamekeeper, the adjunct custodian of the Austro-Hungarian imperial Hofmuseum for Natural History, and a taxidermist, who was also a photographer. The group included two consuls of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, and four military officers of the imperial Ulan Guards. One of the officers was the descendant of an old dynasty of Crusaders, and others belonged to the innermost circle of the Habsburg emperor.² It was impossible for the Archduke to hide his high standing with such an entourage.

Yet in some sense, in 1892, he was indeed unknown to the world. Few outside of Austria-Hungary, Germany, and the higher European aristocracy would have actually recognized him by first name. His trip around the world, for all its excesses in luxury, was typical of someone of his standing, as were many of his other activities. Before assuming the title of Archduke, the prince had been mostly interested in hunting exotic animals. He had purchased a hunting estate from a financially troubled Bohemian nobleman, Prince Lobkowicz. Here, at Konopischt, he displayed the spoils of his exploits shooting Bohemian deer to a select number of guests.³

His Grand Tour was organized using the same boat that had already taken one of his predecessors, Maximilian, on trips to Brazil.⁴ By the middle of the nineteenth century, the educational tour around the globe had become one of the core experiences that prepared aspiring rulers for political power on an increasingly global scale. Between 1880 and 1912, several incumbents to the throne of the Romanoff, Wittelsbach, Hohenzollern, Saxe-Coburg Gotha, and Habsburg families all went on trips around the world. Even the route that Franz Ferdinand’s group had taken was mainstream: they passed from the Mediterranean to Port Said in Egypt to India, from there to Singapore and Australia, then to Japan, North America, and finally, having crossed the United States, back to Vienna.

Global personal renown only reached the Archduke on the day of his death by assassination on 28 June 1914. As Emil Ludwig, one of his generation’s most celebrated political biographers, put it, the assassin, ‘under the doubly symbolic name of Gabriel Princip’ had let loose a ‘world-cataclysm’ for all of Europe’s remaining emperors.⁵ The assassination signalled a famous chain of events that eventually put an end to four European empires. The shots resonated in European cultural memory decades after they were no longer heard in the streets of Sarajevo. The symbolic construction of this event was a major collective accomplishment of Europe’s journalists and historians. Photographs of Franz Ferdinand, originally intended for celebratory purposes, marking the Archduke’s state visit to one of his future domains, obtained documentary value because they were billed as having been taken ‘just minutes before he was assassinated’.

There is hardly a political leader in European history whose assassination was as constitutive of his fame, in proportion to his lifetime identity and achievements, as Franz Ferdinand. This culturally constructed echo reached as far back in time as the French Revolution, when Empress Marie Antoinette had been executed, and as far away geographically as the remote Mexican city of Querétaro, the place where another Habsburg Archduke, Mexican emperor Maximilian, had been executed in 1867.⁶ Franz Ferdinand’s significance as a symbol of the start of the First World War is so pervasive that it is still heard in the twenty-first century. A hundred years on, no historical analysis of the Great War can really do without some account of Franz Ferdinand’s assassination.

The contrast between the rather local significance of Franz Ferdinand before his death, and the global fame of his decline, raises the question as to the reasons for this celebrity. On the surface, aside from the legendary Franz Josef I, who died in 1916, none of the Habsburgs who lived in the twentieth century had any significant political role. Even Franz Josef himself ended up witnessing the gradual devolution of his powers: first, in 1867, to Hungary, then, in the defeat at Solferino, to the rising Italian nation, and finally, around the time of his death, to the other components of his empire. The last Habsburg emperor, Karl, tried to preserve his own power by promoting the creation of puppet kingdoms in Poland and Ukraine, with Karl Stefan and Wilhelm von Habsburg as regents, but this plan never succeeded. Karl Stefan died in his Galician castle, while Wilhelm von Habsburg was killed in a Soviet military camp in 1948.⁷ Increasingly, the Habsburgs had come to excel at another sort of renown: the celebrity of imperial decline. As I want to suggest, the deeper reasons for this celebrity lay not in their real achievements, not in the actual promises that their persons held for their empires, but in the symbolic significance that their figures had both internally and abroad. As Europe’s oldest elites, they were also figures of public identification in the age before democratic representation. Their existence gave persons of different social, ethnic, and religious status to sense some commonality. This sense of a common background became even more important when the empires that these Habsburgs had ruled declined.

Commodifying Habsburg deaths

The property of being célèbre, a secularized form of sanctity, precedes the emergence of the ‘celebrity’ as a noun describing a type of person. This status is achieved when the name of the person itself gives the public the illusion of knowing the person behind the name, even if they know very little about the person, and independently of the person’s actual deeds and actions.⁸ Modern theorists of celebrity tend to explain this phenomenon as the result of the separation of particular individuals from the rest of society through a mass-mediated worship of some of their attributes.⁹ According to this view, celebrities are a quintessentially modern phenomenon, born with the age of the modern revolutions; they come about as a result of the confluence between democratization, rationalization, and commodification.¹⁰

However, the quality of being known in virtue of being known applies particularly directly to Europe’s princely dynasties and other noble families.¹¹ We have an illusion of being familiar with people bearing noble names, as Georg Simmel pointed out, because we recognize the names from history, not because we recognize them as persons. They have practised a careful art of self-fashioning, and other factions in their environment were historically interested in contributing to the fashioning of aristocratic identity in their own interests as well.¹² Their devises and coats of arms are not unlike modern brands. Moreover, the greatest majority of family members with illustrious names spent their life doing very little in the spheres of politics, science, or art, being engaged in purely representational activities, or just living their lives. Most societies know them primarily through the image they associate with their name, supplemented with personal attributes.

Celebrity is the last remnant of charismatic forms of grace; the ‘King’s touch’ is still visible to us through the gaze of the celebrity. The origin of the term ‘celebrity’ is not accidentally connected to the sphere of the sacred, such as the celebration of mass. Weber had taken the theological concept of charisma to describe a particularly premodern and ‘pre-rational’ form of granting someone authority. Modernity is the period in which celebrity is not only a mass spectacle but the spectacle also has multiple, and seemingly impersonal, organizers. The increased intensity of economic and cultural exchange means that the persons holding celebrity status have less control over their image than before. The difference between premodern and modern forms of celebrity, or rather between celebrity in early capitalist and advanced capitalist society, is not in the quality of the celebrity’s authority over a public, which remains magical; rather, the change affects the forms in which the celebrity’s image is socially mediated.

The key question for the historian is at which moment the mechanism of celebrity construction kicks in. In the case of Franz Ferdinand and the Habsburgs generally, these moments are the points in time at which their particular achievements and position come to be perceived as being representative of something far larger than they are. For Franz Ferdinand, this ‘larger than his life’ effect had to do with his activities as a patron of culture.

Upon his return, Franz Ferdinand began to take his duties as a curator of imperial culture as seriously as his uncle. Travelling to remote parts of the Habsburg Empire, he promoted the development of regional folk arts; he also continued collecting and expanding the family’s ethnographic collection for the now-established museum. Seen through the eyes of the Habsburg Archdukes, Europeanness can be grasped through two concepts of detachment: the social detachment of the nobility, particularly of the ruling houses, from their ‘ethnically other’ subjects; and the ethnic distinction between Europeans (as white Christians) and non-Europeans. Members of dynastic families played the role of identity builders, not only as politicians, but also in the sphere of symbolic power, as collectors, as patrons of allegorical self-representation, and as the first dilettante ethnographers.

Celebrities did not emerge at the same time as the circulation of print and the mass market; rather, what changed in the modern period was that their image became much more widely commodified, and that as commodities, they were in competition with others. As commodities, they could not ‘go to market and make exchanges of their own account’, as Marx had put it in Capital, the first volume of which was published in 1867.¹³

In order to understand the symbolic significance of dynastic death – a peculiar kind of celebrity – in modern Europe, we need to place it in comparative perspective. Between 1881 and 1914, there were more assassination attempts against members of European ruling families than had ever before occurred in a comparable time span of recorded European history. Even non-ruling or minor members of a ruling family, as well as vice-regents coming from non-dynastic aristocratic families, became victims of political assaults. This is surprising not least because dynastic legitimacy was an old and carefully constructed system of beliefs; the ruling families, which had controlled much of the cultural production in their realms, sustained it by encouraging displays of their special genealogy, which secured a selective memory of their ancestors. Many groups and factions of European society maintained or at least passively accepted the image of ruling dynasties as symbolic sources of their common identity.¹⁴ Thus even though rituals like the King’s touch, which had previously affirmed the widespread belief in royalty’s special powers of healing, had disappeared by the modern period, in many other respects, dynastic charisma remained intact.¹⁵ The fact that more Europeans were ready to assassinate members of their royal families was not necessarily a sign of their decline in authority; on the contrary, it could equally be interpreted as an act of affirmation that these old rulers continued to embody a political order, albeit one whose decline many considered overdue.

Publicly mediated news of assassinated royals and their voluntary or involuntary abdication allowed contemporaries to conceptualize imperial decline through the notion of death, which was both metaphorical and literal. But this picture of imperial decline, captured in the figure of the deposed or assassinated monarch, would remain incomplete if we did not consider other ways in which imperial decline was represented allegorically.

The celebrated late-Victorian anthropologist James Frazer had remarked that assassinating a monarch used to be one of the fundamental taboos of primitive societies, more significant than the taboo of murder.¹⁶ Yet the increased frequency of royal assassinations, together with the abolition of the nobility, might suggest that in modern times the taboo had been broken too often and in too many places at once to still merit the name. But even if this is the case, the widespread tendencies to break with the old imperial order must still be explained in terms of their impact and their social function. The legal and cultural forms taken by these abolitions contributed significantly to the shaping of post-imperial societies in Europe, from national democracies to authoritarian dictatorships.

As violence against the ruling dynasties took on cultural as well as political forms, these families themselves responded to the acts of terror by enacting policies of commemoration. Monuments were built in a historicist style, recalling a bygone era of greatness, whether neo-Gothic neo-classical, or neo-Mughal. Throughout Europe, an unprecedented number of monuments to living and recently deceased members of ruling families were erected in the decades between the Franco-Prussian War and the First World War. This also coincided with historicist painting coming into fashion, presenting newly made nations with the illustrated history of their rulers.

When they prepared to succeed in power, the representatives of the old empires in Europe were aware of the precariousness of imperial rule. Monuments were erected both in the centres and at the fringes of the empires. The Habsburgs built the neo-Gothic Votivkirche at the heart of their empire in Vienna; completed in 1879, it commemorated both Franz Josef’s survival of a failed knife attack by a Hungarian nationalist in 1853 and the death by firing squad of Emperor Maximilian of Mexico. Similarly, in 1907, the Romanoffs commemorated the death of Alexander II both at the centre and the periphery; the Cathedral of Spas na krovi (literally: ‘Savior on the Blood’), built on the spot in St. Petersburg where Emperor Alexander II had been assassinated in 1881, looks like a smaller copy of the St. Basil’s Cathedral in Moscow. Like the Habsburgs, the Romanoffs also made sure to build monuments to the assassinated emperor at the more contested fringes of their empire, such as the city of Kazan itself, where a monument was erected in 1895. Beyond Europe, Lord Curzon’s calls to build monuments in India to the deceased Queen Victoria resulted in construction not only in the former colonial centre of Calcutta but also at the periphery, in Lucknow, where the famous Sepoy rebellion had strongly shaken her rule in 1857.¹⁷ At the same time, Lucknow became a tourist sight attracting global interest in imperial decline.

The symbolic commemoration of violence gave dynastic rulers a special kind of charisma. Control over the representation of this threat did not remain under the control of the ruling families for long, however. Throughout the territories of former imperial control, the very places where monuments had been erected became loci of resistance. The most famous images of toppling hegemony came from revolutionary Russia.

Another example of self-promotion projects with unintended consequences was the historical archive initiated by the Habsburgs. In 1868, the Habsburg family agreed to open its archives to the public, starting a long process of collecting documents and building a representative edifice for their presentation. The Hohenzollerns, too, opened a museum for the public at this time. But just as in the case of the Hohenzollern museum, the completion of the Habsburgs’ Court and state archive in 1918 would eventually coincide with the demise of the dynasty and its empire.¹⁸ Throughout Europe, aristocratic archives, which the dynasties and minor nobility presented as documents of shared imperial history, had become instruments of their disintegration.

The increased circulation of images of destruction in the international press, books, and films meant that the power of these images transcended the borders of the former empires that the dynasties had represented. Destruction in one location was visible in several locations at once. Images of the decline of dynasties acquired a double meaning as symbols of decline. The dynastic families who had been the makers of identity became objects of an almost ethnographic interest in the past, a European self-ethnography.

The Archdukes as collectors: civilizing Europe with barbarian art

The noble courts and the imperial families that controlled them, in a variety of ways, gave Europeans their first idea of themselves.¹⁹ For ruling families like the Habsburgs and their chief political rivals, the Protestant Hohenzollerns, the history and culture of their families were inseparable from those of their empires.²⁰ At a time when the Habsburg Empire was threatened by national secessionist movements, the imperial family strove to embody, if not to represent, all its subjects in the figure of the emperor.²¹ For instance, followers of Franz Ferdinand celebrated the fact that his 2,047 ancestors belonged to all the nations of the empire. His personal art collection, they indicated, comprised portraits of famous ancestors from across Europe, from Poland in the east to Spain in the west.²²

European dynasties became figures of ‘integration’ for their subjects not only by discussing European history but also by familiarizing Europeans with non-European cultures. In doing so, they laid the foundations for comparative thinking in which class affinities with non-Europeans trumped racial separation between Europeans and non-Europeans.²³ The old dynasties were not only strange, special lineages governing a bunch of alien subjects; they had also introduced them to other types of strangeness, the ‘inferior’ strangeness of non-Christian folk culture. The work of collecting cultural artefacts, promoting imperial culture at home and abroad, and maintaining their family’s prestige was traditionally undertaken by non-ruling family members who were next in line to the throne, and the fact that both Maximilian and Franz Ferdinand were Archdukes made heritage maintenance a central activity for them.

The title of Archduke is itself, in a sense, an early testament to European ‘identity politics’. It reflects the shrewd way in which this family, whose origins can be traced to a small castle in Switzerland first recorded in the twelfth century, secured its power over the centuries, not only by military conquests and marital alliances but also by careful cultivation of the family’s public image. The title derives from a fourteenth-century incident when a Habsburg, Rudolf IV, wanted to obtain the privilege of electing the emperor. To this end, he commissioned a forged document, the Privilegium Maius, which claimed that Austria, now the family’s chief seat, was an ‘Archduchy’.²⁴ The Holy Roman Empire technically recognized only Duchies and Grand Duchies, but the claim went through. This retroactive change of status meant that the Habsburg dukes had the same status as the prince-electors of the Holy Roman Empire, increasing their chances of becoming rulers of the empire for generations to come. Francesco Petrarca proved the document to be a forgery not long after its production, but his discovery of the forgery never undermined the now widely asserted power of the ruling family.²⁵ Even after the forgery was rediscovered again in a nineteenth-century journal, the title had become so much a part of the identity of its imperial family that the publication made no difference. The title persisted for more than a hundred years beyond the lifetime of the Holy Empire itself and, interestingly, even Otto von Habsburg bore the title of Archduke when he died in 2011.

While the symbolic power of the title had waned since the fourteenth century, its economic significance only waxed in importance in the eighteenth. Archdukes, that is, the male members of the immediate imperial family, could now enjoy the privileges of the familial fund (Allerhöchster Familienversorgungsfond), which Maria Theresia had instituted to provide for the imperial family. Although neither Ferdinand Maximilian, as the future emperor Maximilian had been known, nor Franz Ferdinand was born in the direct line of succession to the throne, news of their new position reached them at the age of 16 and 26, respectively. Ferdinand Maximilian’s uncle, who had a neurological disorder, was urged to resign in 1848; when his father also resigned, this left his brother Franz Josef in charge.

After their uncle stepped down in the wake of the revolutions of 1848, Ferdinand Maximilian’s elder brother Franz Josef served as the head of the House of Habsburg, Emperor of Austria, King of a large part of central Europe and parts of the Middle East, including Jerusalem, and at this point was still President of the German Confederation. By contrast, Ferdinand Maximilian as a young man believed that he could be ‘himself’ because he was free from the burden of rule. He was one of the first promoters of early photography and developed a habit of writing his travel journal in verse. Despite his military education, Maximilian preferred the arts and sciences to his brother’s politics. The main focus of Maximilian’s interest was on collecting artefacts and natural objects from around the world, for which he equipped his personal frigate, the SMS Novara. Supplied with the intellectual support of Alexander von Humboldt, whose own explorations dated back to the beginning of the nineteenth century, the frigate travelled to Asia, South America, and Australia, collecting specimens of the culture, flora, and fauna of each.²⁶ Among its anthropological findings was a collection of Aztec and Mexican folk art known as Mexikanische Kostbarkeiten.²⁷

‘I am myself’ [Ich bin ich] – that was his motto of choice for writing about the jungle during a trip to Brazil as a young man in 1859–60.²⁸ ‘Such expeditions are geared towards the individual, and for their duration, caste and estate mean nothing’. In the jungle of Bahia, he believed, the mutual dependence needed to survive against the forces of nature appeared to trump social status. In one poem about the jungle of Bahia, written in January 1860, Maximilian conjured up a mysterious sound coming from the forest, a ‘ghostly army that begs for revenge against the white people – its children’s butchers’. Another poem called The Dethroned Prince described a strange scene: in an Indian settlement in the jungle, an old man sits alone on a stone. He is the ‘Prince of the Camacan’, who was once the lord of his people and the forests. Now, defeated by a rival tribe, the old man ‘cries about his own decline [Untergang]’; this man who had ruled all his life is now seen with his ‘thin legs shaking tiredly’. In the city of Petropolis, Maximilian turns to a critique of urban life typical for Europeans of his generation, describing the appearance of a railway in the jungle. Its shrill sounds, its monstrosity, is set against the ‘holy jungle’ which has been violated like a virgin (geschändet); ‘the Indian flees westwards in astonishment/ away from his father’s place of a thousand years,/ For where the white man moves, his forest dries up,/ and his woman and child will be engulfed by a chain of sin’.²⁹

Echoing the European Romantics, these fantasies of savage cultures appeared as Europe’s critical bad conscience. As Heinrich Heine put it in his 1851 poem ‘Vitzliputzli’, the Aztec god of war would eventually take revenge for the murder of Montezuma, the last Aztec, ruler who had been one of his priests. As Heine put it: ‘This uncivilised,/ Pagan, blinded by superstition/ still believed in loyalty and honour/ and in the sanctity of hospitality’. Montezuma’s gift of a crown of feathers to his future Spanish murderers at the Habsburg court left a material memory for its future heirs. It was integrated into their collection of global artefacts at Castle Ambras and, after the collapse of Habsburg rule, remained the property of the Museum für Völkerkunde. Heine thought that Vitzliputzli, the blood-thirsty God of war, evoked both fear and laughter. His appearance was so ‘kooky/ it’s so squiggly and so childish/ That despite an inner terror/ He still tingles us to laughter’.³⁰ The last word in Heine’s poem belonged not to a European, but to Vitzliputzli himself who wants to ‘flee to the home country of my enemies’ to ‘start a new career’ as the Devil, Beelzebub, and the snake Lilith, to ‘avenge my beloved Mexico’.

Between the French Revolution and the end of the Napoleonic era, authors like Johann Gottfried Herder, August von Kotzebue, and Heinrich von Kleist produced works in which they expressed sympathy for the oppressed native peoples and the slaves of the new world. As Susanne Zantop and others have argued, the idealization of the native ‘others’ was formative for these German authors’ own conceptualization of national identity as a form of resistance against empire.³¹ The fear and sympathy with the ‘black rebellions’ of the new world had been inspired by real events, the 1791 slave uprising of Saint-Domingue. French troops then worked with international, including German, mercenaries to crush the rebellion. National historians like Jules Michelet subsequently found it difficult to reconcile the French army defending the French Revolution at home against the international royalist counter-insurgency but imprisoning the black leader of the slave rebellion of Saint-Domingue, Toussaint L’Ouverture, and leaving him to die in a French prison.³²

Celebrity of decline before Franz Ferdinand: the case of Maximilian

The case of Maximilian of Habsburg, or Ferdinand Max, as he was known in his earlier life, is the most prominent example of a royal celebrity of decline, whose commodification went beyond the control of the royal family. Before the First World War, narratives of Maximilian’s life had been based mostly on accounts of the last three years of his life, which are but a short episode in the international history of Europe and the United States. Interpreters defined his life variously as a symbol of the struggle between republicanism and imperialism, Europe and the new world, or Romanticism and realpolitik. A brief account of these three years shall suffice here. In the 1860s, French emperor Napoleon III, nephew of his greater namesake, decided to use a weakened United States in order to bring Mexico under French control. This he deemed necessary for reasons of state, as emergent republican forces in Mexico had declared themselves bankrupt, which affected French creditors. Moreover, it was a fortunate moment for an intervention because these republicans, who generally enjoyed support from the United States against the more conservative clerical faction of the country, were left briefly to their own devices since the United States were themselves involved in a civil war.

Napoleon’s idea was to invade on the pretences of reclaiming an old right. One of the former rulers of Mexico was the Habsburg family, who had named a province their own after their European possession in Spain Nueva Galicia. The question was this: which member of the Habsburg family is to be cast in the role of prospective emperor. Napoleon’s choice fell on Archduke Maximilian, the brother of his only recently defeated enemy, Emperor Franz Josef. As contemporary critics such as the journalist Karl Marx anticipated in an article for the New York Daily Tribune published in 1861, it was ‘one of the most monstrous enterprises ever chronicled in the annals of international history’.³³

Only a few decades prior to that, a similar venture by the Spanish Itúrbide family had failed. The childless Maximilian and his Belgian wife Charlotte forcefully adopted their son in order to have a future heir. But all was in vain: six years and one more failed empire later, Marx could have well concluded that the story was one of those to be written into those annals in ‘letters of blood and fire’. This plan, which came to be known as the Mexican Intervention or the story of the ‘cactus throne’, united Britain and France in their desire to establish control over Mexican territory in competition with the United States, at a time when Mexico’s emergent governing elite was split between a liberal and a clerical faction. The blood to be shed was that of many people: Mexican insurgents, French officers, Mexican supporters of the empire, and others. But it was the ‘blue’ blood of the Habsburg protagonist, and the actions of a firing squad loyal to Oaxacan republican Benito Juárez, which in 1867 became the symbol of Europe’s waning role as an imperial force in the Americas. Napoleon’s plan was to ship Maximilian to Mexico and install him there as a new Emperor, which he did. In 1864, Maximilian arrived on his own frigate Novara, a boat he had originally destined for scientific explorations around the world.

From the beginning, this was more than just a French intervention, even though it served the interests of primarily French financiers. But the agents involved were international.³⁴ Not only were many of Maximilian’s immediate supporters subjects of different states, including the Habsburg monarchy, Prussia, Saxony, France, and, not least, Mexico, whose status was to be determined; but several of his officers, including Maximilian’s aide-de-camp, Prussian Prince Felix zu Salm-Salm, and another officer, Maximilian Baron von Alvensleben, who came from Saxon nobility, had both just served in the army of the American Unionists in the Civil War.³⁵ Because the financial support for the intervention came primarily from France, this meant that the campaign faltered soon after French support had become increasingly costly, while resistance to European rule in Mexico gained in strength. On top of that, in 1865, the American Civil War had ended, thus increasing the capacity of Americans to support the Mexican republic. Maximilian’s officers had joined him for Romantic reasons: they wanted to support his enlightened monarchy in Mexico against what they thought would be a reactionary republic. But a few months later, the Europeans’ Mexican adventure was over; all European parties involved – the Habsburgs in Austria, the Bonapartes in France, and the Saxe-Coburg-Gothas with their parliamentary government in Britain, as well as financial investors in the campaign throughout Europe – had lost spectacularly. In 1867, the mercenary officers, such as Salm-Salm, who would serve (and die) on the Prussian side in the Franco-Prussian War three years later, returned to their home regiments in Europe; meanwhile, Maximilian and two Mexican officers loyal to him were publicly court-martialled.

Franz Josef tried to keep the scandal of Maximilian’s death under control. Charlotte, his widow, had, in the meantime, lost her mind and lived secluded in one of her father’s castles in Belgium. Maximilian’s former aide-de-camp, Prince Salm-Salm, who had been instructed to gain access to Maximilian’s documents at his residence in Miramar and other locations, complained in his memoirs that the family did not allow him to access the papers he needed to fulfil the promise he had made to Maximilian before he died. The royal court tried to acknowledge the tragedy in its own way. The Votivkirche in Vienna, whose original construction had been Maximilian’s personal project, was rededicated in his memory. Franz Josef also dutifully assembled the artefacts which Maximilian’s boat the frigate Novara had brought from Mexico in a public display in the Hofmuseum’s permanent ethnographic collection. He even prohibited the song ‘La Paloma’, which had become the unofficial anthem of the Mexican republic, to be played in the empire, a rule that still applies in the Austrian navy. The tune ‘La Paloma’ originally had nothing to do with the Habsburgs. Sébastien Yradier, a Basque composer, wrote it in Cuba. The singer who sang it first, Concepcion (Conchita) Mendez, became a royal artist at the theatre recently reinstated by Charlotte at Mexico City. However, as the republican forces gained strength, they appropriated ‘La Paloma’, supplied it with a new title and used it to deride Charlotte of Belgium as ‘Mama Carlota’ on her departure from Mexico. In 1867, as Charlotte was leaving Mexico to seek support for her husband from European monarchs, Conchita Mendez was asked by the crowds to perform the song in the theatre under the new, republican, title. The news that she refused to do so reached Emperor Franz Josef, who praised Conchita’s loyalty in a birthday note in 1901.³⁶ The subsequent story of ‘La Paloma’, which became one of the world’s most popular tunes, only testifies the extent to which the House of Habsburg had lost control over its own media image.³⁷

Above all, Franz Josef could not prevent the fame of Maximilian as a sympathizer with the revolutionary cause, and a puppet in the power politics of Napoleon III, from reaching a wider public. News of Maximilian’s execution reached Europe by telegram at the worst possible moment, when Napoleon III of France was about to open the Great Exhibition of 1867 in Paris. It could only be withheld from the public by one day. In the decade that followed, numerous memoirs, plays, and historical accounts were published and translated into a variety of languages, including French, Spanish, English, Hungarian, Czech and Slovak, Russian, Portuguese, and others.³⁸ The public image of Maximilian acquired more and more dramatic texture after his death, following more publications of eyewitness reports, such as that of his Mexican secretary.³⁹ What appealed to these audiences was primarily the drama of Maximilian’s death, the negative light it shed on the much disliked regime of Napoleon III, and the fact that he emerged as a puppet figure in a struggle between an old civilization and its new rivals. ‘What has become of the eager competition with which the most warlike Monarchy in the Old World and the most self-asserting Republic in the New seemed bent upon disputing the supremacy and high protectorate over so vast a part of the Western Continent?’ – asked the Times in January 1867.⁴⁰

In the year after his death, Maximilian’s memoirs of his life and thoughts before 1864 were published at Duncker & Humblot, a publishing house with eminent predecessors to Maximilian, such as Schegel, E.T.A. Hoffmann, and Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel.⁴¹ Despite a very limited circulation size of 5,000 copies, it was soon translated into French and English in the same year. Maximilian’s notes revealed a republican spirit. In 1859, while Franz Josef was struggling against France in the battle of Solferino, Maximilian at the nearby castle Miramar celebrated Lucca, where ‘Libertas had flourished in times of a long and true peace, because it was satisfied with the small and never strove for the big.’⁴² Influenced by the German Romantics who had also inspired the revolutionaries of 1848, Maximilian had been in constant search of his own identity.

After the First World War, more works on Maximilian appeared when the collapse of the Habsburg Empire left scholars free to access hitherto private family papers at the Haus-, Hof- und Staatsarchiv in the Hofburg.⁴³ Using this resource, as well as the published memoirs of some of Maximilian’s entourage, in 1923, Viennese historian Count Corti published the first scholarly biography of Maximilian, insisting that of ‘all the tragedies in history there is scarce one which has so deeply excited the sympathy of the world as that of the ill-fated Emperor and Empress of Mexico’.⁴⁴ As ‘New-World Republicanism’ had its ‘most satisfying triumph over the Old-World Courts’, Maximilian became a tragic figure whose last words kept being reiterated by biographers: ‘I forgive everyone, and I pray that everyone may forgive me. May my blood, now to be shed, be shed for the good of Mexico.’⁴⁵ This was the line that had been printed on the cartes de visite of his execution by the studio of Adrien Cordiglia in 1867.

Corti’s and other biographies had given a shape to Maximilian’s figure, which made him ready for the republican causes of the twentieth century. The circumstances of Maximilian’s death gave Europeans one more, albeit negative, source of identity. As the British Empire faced what became the last decade of rule in India, historian Daniel Dawson described how, at the time of Maximilian, the ‘scorching sun of a Mexican summer shone on an Empire in dissolution’.⁴⁶ Maximilian became Europe’s first inter-imperial and transatlantic celebrity of decline since Christopher Columbus’s accidental discovery of America. Both were Habsburg enterprises, but only Maximilian obtained the peculiar status of a celebrity in virtue of his failure.

Maximilian had become the stuff of a growing culture industry, which began with the photographic depiction of his execution. It had multiple centres of distribution: photographic studios in Mexico City and in Paris; newspaper bureaus; later, local tourism organizations based in locations associated with his life and death, including Castle Miramar near Trieste, and Querétaro, his place of death, where by the 1890s, a more formal monument to Maximilian was erected that was reproduced as one of the sights of Mexico by contemporary photographers and even marketed abroad in places such as the American magazine Harper’s. A Journal of Civilization.

In Europe, a painting by Édouard Manet showing the execution of Maximilian was first banned from public view under Napoleon III. The impoverished Manet had cut up the painting, to be sold in parts. But his friend Edgar Degas later purchased the fragments and reassembled them. The subsequent success of this nearly complete painting eventually popularized the story of Maximilian along with Manet’s own in the twentieth century.

Manet had never been to Mexico but used photographs, accounts circulating in the French press, as well as an image by Goya of the Spanish resistance against Napoleon, as a basis. He was not trying to get as close to reality as possible; but he wanted to capture the true spirit of the event. As contemporaries like Emile Zola duly noted, in one of the versions, even though it was publicly known that Maximilian’s executors were Mexican nationalists led by Benito Juárez, he depicted them wearing French uniforms with their characteristic kepis. Immediately interpreted as an open critique of Napoleon III, the painting and even its lithographic reproductions were banned in France.⁴⁷ As a result, even after Napoleon’s death, the painting was shown only in Boston and not displayed in France until after Manet’s death.⁴⁸

As acclaimed art historian Julius Meier-Graefe put it: ‘Art changes, just as houses and dresses, morals and ideals change, and one and the same artwork changes, as if it was still being worked upon, even after it had been hanging behind a glass frame.’⁴⁹ In Paris in 1884, nobody wanted to buy Manet’s painting, The Execution of Maximilian, probably for political reasons, since all other paintings offered at a Vente found buyers. But by 1898, French collector of impressionist art Paul Durand-Ruel purchased it from Manet’s wife for 8,000 francs. It was then sold on to another French buyer for 12,000. By 1908, German buyer Bernheim found that it was worth 60,000 francs. By 1910, the Mannheim art gallery bought the painting for the equivalent of 90,000 francs.⁵⁰

In 1918, the National Gallery acquired a fourth version of Manet’s Execution of Maximilian from the private collection of Degas, who had just died in Paris. The purchase was facilitated from a government grant by a special permission of John Maynard Keynes and Lord Curzon, who were being advised by Roger Fry. One of the economic consequences of the war was a rapid depreciation of art. Keynes and Curzon formed an ad hoc committee from the National Gallery and travelled to Paris, just as Germany was bombing the city, to acquire the painting at an auction. It was a bargain: 25,052 francs or 945 pounds sterling, which would be the equivalent of £50,000 in 2015.⁵¹

At the turn of the century, the Habsburgs turned from collectors to collectibles, from owners of curiosity into objects of curiosity. The Paris art salon had established a tradition for depicting decapitated and deposed monarchs, but prior to Manet, they focused mostly on France and Britain. It was particularly a contemporary of Eugène Delacroix, the great allegorist of liberty, who excelled at depicting the deaths of crowned subjects. Paul Delaroche was so drawn to depicting subjects such as the executions of Marie Antoinette and Charles I Stuart that Heinrich Heine was prompted to remark: ‘Mr Delaroche is the court painter of all decapitated majesties.’⁵² What gave the spectacle of their death a hue of universal tragic symbolism, even, and especially, in cases like Maximilian and Franz Ferdinand, who had barely held any political power in their lifetime? Some factors are specific to each case. Maximilian’s brief rise and decline was, as we have seen, entangled with several aspects of European and transatlantic politics, making the affair an international event. Franz Ferdinand’s imminent succession to the throne gave his activities more weight. Besides, both shared the familial charisma of the Habsburgs, which still carried some weight. But I believe that the most significant factor, and one which helps explain the symbolic importance of all three assassinated Habsburgs, but particularly Maximilian and Franz Ferdinand, was that they made their subjects’ own identity: their families’, their subjects’, and that of Europe at large. As scholars have argued, through institutions such as the collection of ethnographic objects, museums, and other forms of cultural heritage, the Habsburgs gave their subject shared and divided forms of identity. In their absence, the character of this identity was put into question.

Figure 4 Edouard Manet, The Execution of Maximilian (1867–8).

National Gallery, NG3294

Interpreters made much of the symbolism that it was the same boat, the frigate Novara, which on Maximilian’s orders had introduced the Viennese to Mexican culture that returned to Trieste with his dead body in 1867.⁵³ As Rubén Gallo argued, the confluence of these symbols gave impressionable Habsburg subjects like Sigmund Freud nightmares of their very own death. Even before Franz Ferdinand was assassinated, Sigmund Freud observed that his patients had obsessive dreams that were based on their repressed fears of agents provocateurs.⁵⁴ Throughout Europe, terrorist plots and individual attempts against ruling families and some non-dynastic rulers were indicating the fragility of the political order.⁵⁵ Photographic documentation could not capture the moment of destruction but documented the absent body as graphically as possible, as, for example, in a police photograph of the assassinated Grand Duke Sergius in Moscow in 1905. In lectures held at the University of Vienna in 1917, he argued that mourning could be the effect of the ‘loss of a beloved person or an abstraction that came to take its place such as the fatherland, freedom, an ideal, etc.’⁵⁶ The loss of a fatherland or an empire is insofar akin to the loss of a love, he suggested, as it is not caused by the mere absence of a physical body in the world, but in the disturbance of an imaginary, spiritual relationship between oneself and that other, abstract or real, person. Freud’s own dreams, as Rubén Gallo surmises, reflected the history of Maximilian’s own death, which Freud had also contemplated as a tourist at Maximilian’s Italian castle Miramar, looking at the allegory of Maximilian ruling the new world.

It was fantastical writings like Heine’s that inspired Maximilian to widen his Grand Tours beyond the confines of Europe. But, understandably, Maximilian’s attitude towards the nobleness of the natives and his own European heritage was more ambivalent than that of the Romantics. He empathized with an indigenous prince, and yet also admired the idea of empire. He brought Mexican antiquities to Europe, but when he took up residence in Chapultepec Castle, an eighteenth-century palace erected for the Spanish viceroys on the tip of a sacred Aztec site, he had it redesigned in the style of Neuschwanstein – the epitome of neo-Gothic Europeanism.⁵⁷ Maximilian praised Lucca, but he also praised England for having created the Leviathan and the Crystal Palace. As between these two achievements of imperial power, he preferred the Crystal Palace to the Leviathan. When, in Granada, the cathedral’s Quasimodo handed him the regalia of his ancestors for a few moments, Maximilian wanted to purchase them. ‘Proudly and yet sadly I took in my hand the golden ring and the once powerful sword. Would it not be a brilliant dream to draw the latter in order to win the former?’⁵⁸ In Europe especially, he felt a right to control territory that used to belong to his ancestors; across the Atlantic, he felt acutely as a representative of illegitimate white power with no ancient claims to the land. Back in Europe, Maximilian was critical upon seeing the sale of women in a market in Constantinople.⁵⁹

Representatives of other dynasties, the Hohenzollerns, Wittelsbachs, Romanoffs, and Saxe-Coburg Gothas, also sent their incumbents to the throne on global journeys between the 1880s and the 1910s. The Bavarian prince Rupprecht and the Prussian crown prince Wilhelm travelled to the Orient using the services of the North German Lloyd in 1898 and 1911, respectively. Wilhelm’s documentation of his trip, which followed the same route as Franz Ferdinand’s, was published in 1911 in two versions, a book and a limited-edition portfolio, while Rupprecht’s appeared much later, in 1922. As Queen Victoria’s great-grandson, on this occasion he became colonel-in-chief of a British regiment, the Prince Albert’s Hussars, an event that was also documented photographically. In the photographs, he is shown parading with an English sentry and with dragoons in various locations in India.

The Hohenzollern prince, like Franz Ferdinand, focused on his hunting of tigers and leopards in Mirzapur and Hyderabad, with one of the coloured plates showing two leopards shot by the prince on 23 January 1911. Back in Europe, Franz Ferdinand’s photos of his prey, displayed by a group of seven Indians surrounding the Archduke, had been similarly retouched at the photographic studio of Carl Pietzner, who left only his highness and the tiger, surrounded by oriental wilderness, in the frame.⁶⁰ A later republication of the photograph put the Indians back in the picture.⁶¹

Breaking taboos

Noble families of old lineage used to be, as Norbert Elias argued in 1939, the main authors of Europe’s civilizing process; but as the world public witnessed with awe and mixed feelings, the very civilization they had shaped was turning against them.⁶² The ethnographic collections they had assembled were used to give authority to the autonomy of individual Habsburg ethnicities; the photographers, painters, composers, and writers who were once employed by the courts to write hagiographies and eulogies to the dynastic families now testified to the waning of their authority. In the Habsburg Empire, the commemoration of the fiftieth anniversary of Franz Josef’s rule in 1898 coincided with the fiftieth anniversary of the revolutions against the Habsburg family.⁶³ Similarly, in Britain the celebration of European culture at home – in Grand Expositions, museums, and such like – coincided with the nascent anti-colonial rebellions in the rest of the world. They were, in the satirical language of Robert Musil, ‘parallel actions’ (Parallelaktion). In this process, the old dynasties acquired a new property – that of a celebrity of decline – suggesting that what seemed to be parallel developments were in fact crossroads of imperial disintegration.

A peculiar reversal had occurred. As early as the 1850s, royal courts like those of the Habsburgs and the Bonapartes had employed court photographers. Those same photographers also produced typological ethnographic images of their subjects, both in Europe – producing exotic-looking images of various Slavic peoples – and beyond, such as a series of images of non-Europeans.⁶⁴ Court painters and photographers accompanied royal parties on grand tours where they documented acts that now appear inhuman, like the sale of women in a Constantinople market. But only a few decades later, those same photographers documented the executions of members of royal families, and some of them also became the chief authors of critical depictions of European imperial rule.

Imperial dynasties historically had a high level of control not only over their own image, but also over the cultural memory of actions carried out in their name. This was a form of cultural power or charisma at which the Habsburgs excelled even above the other families. As patrons of artists in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, Habsburg rulers supported such masters as Arcimboldo, Diego Velàzquez, Albrecht Dürer, and Albrecht Altdorfer, who had created memorable allegories of individual rulers and dynastic lines. In the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, other princely houses throughout Europe commissioned artists such as Giambattista Tiepolo to represent them in allegorical frescoes of empire. What theorist of culture Guy Debord once said of the premodern Chinese emperors applies equally to Europe’s dynasties: they were the private owners of history and the immortality of the soul, as each family sought to be the monopolist of Europe’s cultural memory.⁶⁵ In architecture, too, the courts of major and minor princes left a fashionably neo-classical imprint on the architecture of not only the metropoles but also that of the colonies.

However, in the modern era, these tools of representation increasingly escaped the control of the royal courts.⁶⁶ During the French Revolution, the Jacobins managed to recruit the nation’s leading painters, such as Jacques-Louis David, to draw allegories of rebellion against the old order. This kind of change in control over art and culture made it possible for Jean-Paul Marat, a comparatively short-lived political figure with no dynastic power, to obtain a greater celebrity upon his death than the publicly executed Habsburg queen, Marie Antoinette.⁶⁷ Likewise, after the French occupation of Spain under Napoleon, a former painter at the court of Napoleon’s brother Joseph, Francisco de Goya, produced a later famous allegorical image of Spanish resistance, using an anonymous man as his chief protagonist.⁶⁸ Subverting the royal minting of coins, Europeans saw the production of so-called ‘medals of dishonour’, where the imprint of a ruler in decline, Napoleon, was used to ridicule and mock rather than to celebrate and extol.⁶⁹ The palaces of governors and viceroys in their prime were as imposing as their destruction was dramatic, as attested to by the widely mediated picture of the destroyed palace at Lucknow after the Indian rebellion of 1857, for example. Similarly, during the Russian Revolution artists such as Boris Kustodiev, who had painted one of the last portraitists to represent Tsar Nicholas II in 1915, became enlisted as the revolution’s first ‘court’ painters.

The revolutionaries in France were also the first to open the king’s private art collection to the public. By the end of the nineteenth century, many of Europe’s ruling dynasties followed suit by creating public cultural institutions themselves, but they were too late – the art market was becoming more international, and independent institutions were founded with private capital that did not depend on dynastic authority. In Europe and North America, world fairs and great exhibitions encouraged the display of paintings from several countries in what historians have described as an age of ‘cultural internationalism’.⁷⁰ Imperial governments tried to control all of these institutions, but the scope was unmanageable. What Tim Blanning described as the ‘power of culture’ could also be used against those who had originally commissioned it.⁷¹

The loss of control over their own image was not a problem only for the old dynasties. Governments of every kind, including the Republican government of the United States, found it difficult to control the dissemination of visual information that could serve to critique their policies. The political impact of this opening up of visual exchange was first felt in the sphere of war documentation. While governments preferred what would now be called embedded painters to depict scenes of war, or commissioned works from trusted artists after the fact, they found it increasingly difficult to prevent critical images from reaching a wider public. For example, the famous Russian battle painter Vasili Vereshchagin, who had been originally hired by the imperial army to depict heroic battle scenes, eventually became a critic of imperialism and sympathized with anarchists and socialists.⁷² His depictions of the horrors of war, drawn from life and infused with biblical themes, offered a critique of wars regardless of whether they were fought by imperial Russia in Central Asia and Turkey, by the American army in the Philippines, or by the British in India. The international art market allowed him to remain independent from the payments he could have enjoyed from any of these armies. His paintings were displayed in London, Paris, St. Petersburg, Munich, Chicago, and New York, and he also sold paintings internationally. One image showing a dying Russian soldier was banned from a St. Petersburg art salon in 1873, but went on display in art salons in Chicago and Paris; conversely, his painting of British violence against Indians, Blowing from Guns, which revived the memory of the violent crushing of the Sepoy rebellion in 1857, was not displayed in London but was presented in St. Petersburg.⁷³ Such prohibitions, each of which was limited to one state, only increased his popularity. In addition to realist painting, photography was on its way to becoming an effective way to apply political pressure on governments. For instance, the celebrated French photographer Félix Nadar, who was known for his portraiture of some of Europe’s leading monarchs, poets, and celebrities, in 1859 decided to fly over the battle of Solferino in a hot-air balloon to document Habsburg atrocities against the Italians.

Originally, like images of battlefields, pictures of dynastic leaders had served the purpose of what Guy Debord called a ‘total justification’ for the entire social system of empire.⁷⁴ Royal and noble courts mediated the way dynasties were represented, but also promoted carefully chosen representations of their own subjects, for example by organizing and documenting parades of its subjects according to social and ethnic groups, or providing heroic images of war. Photography itself did not change this tradition. On the contrary, when Maximilian of Habsburg held court in Mexico, for instance, he took with him his court photographer, the Frenchman François Aubert, who produced extensive coverage of courtly life in Mexico City between 1864 and 1867.⁷⁵ However, changes to the way images were mediated nationally and internationally, together with the reproducibility of the photograph, meant that noble families in the modern era found it increasingly difficult to stop painters, then photographers, and later film-makers from displaying, reproducing, and distributing images on the world market. Walter Benjamin’s claim that the mechanical reproducibility of art reduced the courts’ ability to retain control over the production of art could thus be extended much further: dynasties could no longer exercise control over their own image.⁷⁶ Images of dynastic rulers were increasingly used as icons of their own decline in a way that differed from the fixed, static symbols of assassinations, such as the monuments and memorials which had dominated aristocratic iconography. Of the dozens of ruling houses in Europe that lost power in the twentieth-century European revolutions, two in particular became repeated targets of political assassinations: the Habsburgs and the Romanoffs, both of which lost several family members in only three generations.

The practice of photography had initially allowed dynasties to modernize their own image; members of Europe’s ruling princely houses were among the first buyers of camerae obscurae, daguerreotypes, and other cameras. The new technologies of representation favoured displays of personal, unique, and unrepeatable characteristics, which initially allowed their aristocratic owners to continue the old hagiographic tradition.⁷⁷ However, as uses of photography spread socially, the photograph acquired a different documentary value of public significance. People used small postcard-sized photographs as cartes de visite through a process of reproduction invented and patented in Paris in the 1850s. The cards were pocket-sized images, usually of royal families in Europe and of political leaders in the Americas, that came in three sizes: ‘cabinet’, ‘boudoir’, and ‘imperial’.⁷⁸ The new printing technique used in their production meant that these small photographs were available for a much cheaper price than the more exclusive daguerreotypes.

Public knowledge of royal assassinations far exceeded the boundaries of their empires. With new technologies improving their availability, photographs were increasingly appreciated for their documentary value; they were no longer merely hagiographic in purpose. As photographs became more easily producible and reproducible, they reached an audience that was widening in terms of both social class and geography. Within a span of twenty years, photographers originally trained in Vienna and Paris had opened offices in Berlin, St. Petersburg, Moscow, New York, Mexico City, Buenos Aires, the states of Pernambuco and Bahia, and many other locations, and the press increasingly adopted the medium as documentation of events.⁷⁹ François Aubert, who had spent time at Emperor Maximilian’s court in Mexico, taking the first ethnographic photographs of Mexicans, was also the one to produce the first images of Maximilian’s body and clothes riddled with bullets after his execution. Another photographer, though he probably did not witness the moment itself, used a montage to recreate the execution of Habsburg emperor Maximilian of Mexico in 1867.⁸⁰ Likewise, a 1905 daguerreotype of an open carriage in Moscow documented the assassination of Grand Duke Sergius, an uncle of Emperor Nicholas II, by means of nitrogen bomb. Revolutions against the German Barons of the Baltic provinces in Russia left vivid images of demolished country estates, which could be used both to condemn and to sympathize with the revolutionaries.

Of course, not all assassinations were documented in as much detail as that of Maximilian. In the absence of photographs showing the Romanoff family being killed, photographs taken four years prior to their execution in 1918 were scrutinized in the illustrated press and popular biographies to conjure up a feeling of immediacy. Commenting on the photograph of the Romanoff family taken a week before their execution, one article emphasized ‘some of the matchless pearls afterwards stolen from their dead bodies by the murderers’ seen around Alix von Hessen-Darmstadt’s neck.⁸¹ Instead of showing the execution of the dynastic family, Soviet film-maker Sergei Eisenstein resorted to metonymic images: a white horse hanging from a Petersburg bridge, symbolizing the destruction of an aristocratic culture, and statues and palaces being demolished in the name of the revolution. This gave viewers a punctum of tragic experience, to borrow a concept from Roland Barthes’s analysis of modern myth-making. In the twentieth century, the Habsburgs and the Romanoffs shared what historian Boris Kolonitskii describes as the ‘tragic eroticism’ of dynastic families in decline: the irrational appeal of the royal family even and especially at the time of its greatest weakness.⁸²

The Grand Tour in global circulation

If it had not been for the Habsburg’s famous death, the young Prussian count Kessler would have never set foot on the colonial city of Querétaro, in north-central Mexico, which lay outside his travel route when he came to Mexico as part of his Grand Tour in 1896. As a student, Kessler had attended lectures by Wilhelm Wundt, whose multivolume comparative study on global ‘folk psychology’ captured the imagination of many students at the time, including Sigmund Freud.⁸³ As Kessler remarked in his Notes on Mexico of 1898, ‘[o]urs is possibly the last time when you can still travel; we are already hardly able to escape our civilisation; the image remains surprisingly the same from one part of the world to the other’.⁸⁴ One of the world’s first users of a Kodak-2, and a great admirer of modern French art, Kessler dedicated most of his trip, a modern Grand Tour, to ethnographic exploration, documenting the Aztec ruins of the Yucatán peninsula. While in Mexico, he was a guest at the Jockey Club of Mexico City, the place where members of high society mingled, just as they did in Vienna and Prague. One General O. (Ochoa) he knew apparently owned the Popocatepetl. This trip resulted in an ‘anthropology of decadence’, as biographer Laird Easton put it; Kessler would stop at palaces and haciendas belonging to the influential local elite with professional ties to his father.⁸⁵

Querétaro and the Yucatán ruins marked for Kessler the boundaries of European civilization and the image of a savage other. Born a year after Maximilian’s execution, Kessler was the son of a Prussian banker, who had been ennobled by Wilhelm I, and an actress of Anglo-Irish nobility, whose father and grandfather were British imperial civil servants in Baghdad and in India. He had attended St. George’s school in Ascot and was acquainted with the English admirers of modernist art, such as the Bloomsbury group and Roger Fry especially. In later years, on his travels along the Italian coast, he passed Maximilian’s castle of Miramar and observed that ‘the last Habsburgs knew how to die in beauty; Maximilian of Mexico, the Empress Elizabeth, the Archduke Rudolf, here, the Archduke Ludwig Salvator, even the humble grave of the last emperor in the small village church on Madeira, evoke aesthetic respect’. By contrast, ‘the last Hohenzollerns are a slap in the face of any aesthetics, even any human respect with their rawness, fickleness, wildness and lack of taste; the last Habsburgs end their days as gentlemen, the last Hohenzollerns like carters’.⁸⁶ Worse still, at this point former German emperor Wilhelm II, whom Kessler hated, was still alive, exiled in Doorn, in the Netherlands.

The tourism industry around the Habsburgs had begun with the court itself licensing specific photographers to disseminate images of their estates to a wider public. Thus the copyright licence for distributing images of Miramar as well as monuments to Maximilian belonged to the Trieste-born photographer Guglielmo Sebastianutti. But the industry far outlived the family’s own power. In the context of a blooming cultural production on the theme of crisis and decline characteristic of this period, publications on Maximilian picked up. The composer Franz Liszt wrote several works dedicated to Maximilian. Vienna State Opera commissioned the modernist composer Ernst Krenek to write a stage work on the Habsburg emperor Karl V, the reluctant emperor who agreed to have his empire reduced by half and lost the Spanish part to the Bourbons in the sixteenth century, with references to Maximilian. Outside Austria, the resonance was equally great. In Paris, Darius Milhaud wrote several musical works on the subject.⁸⁷ In Mexico City, the journalist Carleton Beales, who formed part of a circle of modernist Bohemians that comprised the photographer Tina Modotti, rediscovered a forgotten memoir of Maximilian’s private secretary, and edited its English translation for Yale University Press.⁸⁸

In Germany, Maximilian was a topic of discussion among the new government elites, especially since the famous director Max Reinhardt staged Franz Werfel’s play Maximilian und Juarez. Count Kessler’s diary tells us about a conversation about it that involved the director of the Reichsbank and member of the German Democratic Party, Hjalmar Schacht; the French ambassador Roland de Margerie; the academic Otto Hoetzsch; and the president of the Reichstag, Paul Löbe.⁸⁹

By 1938, Manet’s painting and Werfel’s play served as the basis for a film made in Hollywood by German expatriate Wilhelm (William) Dieterle, which extolled the new world republicanism of Mexican revolutionary Benito Juárez against the evil character of Napoleon III, who represented ‘Old Europe’. By this point, in addition to Manet’s Spanish source for the painting, Goya’s allegory of Spanish resistance, Dieterle had one more Spanish reference to consider. Photographer Robert Capa had produced the world’s first image of a man being shot dead, printed for the French magazine Vu and the American journal Life, and later discussed in his book Death in the Making.⁹⁰ It showed a republican soldier in the Spanish Civil War being shot by Franco’s troops.⁹¹ Dieterle, a German who belonged to the ‘left’ scene in Hollywood’s expat community, effectively merged the two images into one, reviving the icon for the screen. The mediated production of this and other Habsburg tragedies, encouraged by the opening of the archives, turned the tragic story of one Habsburg prince into a foil, a ‘transitional object’ for various narratives of European decline.⁹² Dieterle worked more in the tradition of a Goya than a Jacques-Louis David, making allegories of revolutionaries, rather than deceased rulers. His first published image had been a portrait of Leon Trotsky in 1932.⁹³ In a sense, both Juárez and Maximilian are two faces of revolution; while the old European powers and the United States are forces of empire.

Many of the hagiographic films of Habsburg decline were produced by actors, directors, and composers, who, although they had been subjects of the Romanoff and Habsburg dynasties, were no particular admirers of the family: actors and directors Joseph von Sternberg and Alexander Korda, for example, or the composer Erich Wolfgang Korngold. For them, the stories of dynastic decline served as a way of rethinking their own loss of identity.⁹⁴ The deaths of these monarchs, in many cases, were ‘pseudo-events’ in the age of mass culture not because they never happened but because the meaning that was attributed to them stood in for many other dimensions of imperial decline. In the same way, few people beyond the borders of the Austro-Hungarian Empire had even heard of Franz Ferdinand when he was shot in 1914. Instead, interpreters focused on the ‘doubly symbolic’ name of his assassin, Gavrilo Prinzip, who they saw as a modern Archangel Gabriel sent to earth to let loose a ‘world-cataclysm’.⁹⁵

The growing film industry allowed a much wider audience to share in the experience of decline. The world’s leading film production companies, based in the Soviet Union and in Hollywood, reproduced the memory of dynastic decline and its symbols for a much wider audience and an increasingly global market. These films included Sergei Eisenstein’s film October (1928), for example, which documents the Revolution of 1917, or Esfir’ Shub’s Padenie dinastii Romanovykh (The Fall of the Romanoff Dynasty) (1927), a documentary. Other films on the subject include works by film-makers based in Germany – for example, Alexander Korda with his Tragödie im Hause Habsburg (Tragedy in the House of Habsburg) (1924), and Rudolf Raffé with the film Das Schicksal derer von Habsburg – die Tragödie eines Kaiserreiches (The Fate of the von Habsburgs – the Tragedy of an Empire) (1928), which featured the young Leni Riefenstahl as an actress and was filmed on location at Schönbrunn Palace in Vienna. In Hollywood, there were Erich von Stroheim’s The Wedding March (1928), one of the last silent movies; Sidney Franklin’s Reunion in Vienna (1933), about romance and social crisis in the aftermath of the First World War; The King Steps Out (1936), about Franz Josef’s romance with Elizabeth, directed by Joseph von Sternberg; The Great Waltz (1938), a film about Johann Strauss junior’s ambivalent relationship to the European revolutionaries of 1848; Juárez (1939) the story of Emperor Maximilian of Mexico, produced by Wilhelm Dieterle; and in the 1950s, a revival of the image of Sisi in Hollywood and Austrian films.⁹⁶

As a form of voluntary homelessness, globetrotting first became an activity for the affluent, and typically male, members of the modern world. Private and corporate organizers profited from the availability of new travel routes, backed by the military power of European imperial governments. The Suez Canal, which opened in 1869, allowed direct passage from the Mediterranean to the Red and Arabian seas as well as the Indian Ocean.⁹⁷ Thomas Cook’s company alone claimed to have organized tours for over two million people, including not only Europe’s aristocracy but also its cultural celebrities like Robert Louis Stevenson.⁹⁸ Following Emperor Franz Josef’s presence at the opening of the Suez Canal in 1869 in his capacity as King of Jerusalem, his family members also discovered the Orient as a travel destination.⁹⁹ The visit of Crown Prince Rudolf to the area in 1881 was a state occasion.¹⁰⁰ About a hundred years later, the Suez Canal became the symbol of decolonization.¹⁰¹

The travel notes to exotic countries that the Habsburgs left behind echoed those of other princes of their generation, such as the Saxe-Coburg Gothas, and the Hohenzollerns. They show princes shooting rare animals such as leopards and lions, which were circulated in the European press. Yet at the end of the European civil wars around the First World War, such noble celebrities themselves became victims of assassinations. The exotic cultures that they used to collect, such as the ‘savage’ cultures of the Aztec, instead became the starting point for a new type of modern imagination. Court publishers promoted work of ‘ethnographies’ not only of non-European savages, but increasingly also of their own subjects, particularly the Southern Slavs.¹⁰² However, the Habsburgs soon became objects of touristic and ethnographic interest. The Austrian museum of ethnography has displayed the Habsburg collections of Aztec memorabilia, such as the Penacho, the alleged feather crown of Montezuma, as part of its national heritage ever since the Habsburgs had acquired the crown.¹⁰³ But in the twentieth century, even that crown has become an object of dispute between the Austrian state and Mexico. The old rulers had introduced European publics to the “savage” mind; and inspired by these images, this public now rediscovered the power of transgressing a taboo. Heine had been right: Vitzliputzli, the Aztec god of anti-colonial resistance, had finally reached Europe.