Empress Elisabeth of Bavaria, known as Sisi, was killed on September 10, 1898, in Geneva with an ordinary file. Her murderer, Italian anarchist Luigi Lucheni, did not even specifically target her. He wanted to kill anyone from the aristocracy, and the empress simply crossed his path.
A Child Without an Identity
Luigi Lucheni was born on April 22, 1873, in Paris as the son of Italian maid Luigia Lucchini. His father’s identity remained unknown. His mother gave up the newborn almost immediately after birth to a foundlings’ shelter. Thus began the life of a man destined to change the course of European history.
Already as a one-year-old, he was transported to Italy, where his journey between orphanages and foster families began. None of them became his true home. This lack of belonging, the sense of being unwanted and rejected by society, shaped his later worldview.
Growing up, Lucheni took on various odd jobs in Italy, Switzerland, and Austria-Hungary. He served in the Italian army for three years, which paradoxically taught him the discipline he would later use for a completely different purpose. It was after completing his military service that he came to Switzerland, where his life took a new, darker turn.
The Birth of an Anarchist
In Lausanne, Lucheni came into contact with the anarchist movement. For a man without roots, family, or prospects, an ideology that rejected the entire social order must have been particularly appealing. The anarchists offered a simple explanation for his misfortunes: the ones to blame were those above, the aristocracy, the monarchs, the whole system.
The end of the 19th century was a time of intense anarchist activity in Europe. Assassinations targeting heads of state and members of the elite occurred regularly. Lucheni absorbed this revolutionary atmosphere and decided to make his mark on history. At first, his intended target was Henry, Duke of Orléans, but his plans changed.
When he learned that the Empress of Austria was in Geneva, he considered her just as good a target. For an anarchist, the specific person did not matter—only the symbol. Elisabeth of Bavaria embodied everything Lucheni hated: wealth, privilege, power inherited by birth.
A File Instead of a Dagger
September 10, 1898, was a sunny day in Geneva. Empress Elisabeth, accompanied by her lady-in-waiting, Countess Sztáray, left their hotel on Lake Geneva. They planned to take a steamboat to Montreux. Famous for her dislike of court pomp, Elisabeth walked without an escort. This decision cost her her life.
Lucheni waited at the pier. As the empress passed by, he approached quickly and stabbed her just below the left breast. He used a file intended for sharpening industrial needles—a four-inch tool with a wooden handle. Later, he bitterly explained that he had no money for a proper dagger.
What happened next was most astonishing. The mortally wounded empress got up and, supported by two people, walked a short distance to board the steamer. Only when the ship left the shore did Countess Sztáray notice the blood. The steamer turned back, but it was too late. Two doctors confirmed her death within an hour of the attack.
The Trial and a Demand for Death
Lucheni was captured almost immediately after the attack. The file was found the following day. During interrogations, the anarchist proudly confessed to the deed. He explained that he had come to Geneva intending to kill any monarch, to set an example for others. He wanted to intimidate the aristocracy and express his contempt for the whole system.
The trial began in October 1898 and brought an unexpected turn. Lucheni was furious when he learned that Geneva had abolished the death penalty. He even wrote a letter demanding that his case be transferred to another canton where he could be executed. He dreamed of martyrdom, of becoming a symbol for other anarchists. Instead, he received a life sentence.
In prison, Lucheni began to write memoirs. Perhaps he sought to give meaning to his life and his act this way. When the guards confiscated his writings, he fell into deep depression. On October 19, 1910, twelve years after the assassination, he hanged himself in his cell. The man who so desired death at the hands of an executioner ultimately inflicted punishment on himself.
Rory Thornfield
Rory's grandfather left behind a wartime diary filled with accounts of a minor Burma skirmish that history books never mentioned. Reading it, Rory realized: behind every famous battle are dozens of forgotten struggles, each with its own human drama.
His preferred topics: The overlooked corners of military history – secondary campaigns, shadow battalions, local conflicts that never made headlines. From medieval sieges to twentieth-century expeditions, he focuses on the soldiers, not the generals. The people who faced impossible choices and carried those experiences forever.
Rory strips away the romanticism without losing respect for those who served. He combines tactical analysis with personal stories, examining human endurance and moral complexity rather than celebrating warfare. His writing is balanced, thoughtful, and deeply researched.
Outside work, Rory visits forgotten battlefields (now quiet farmland), photographs war memorials nobody tends anymore, and interviews veterans' families.