austrian author

Peter Rosegger (31 July 1843 – 26 June 1918) 

Austrian writer and poet from the province of Styria. He was a son of a mountain farmer and grew up in the woodlands and mountains of Alpl. Rosegger went on to become a most prolific poet and author as well as an insightful teacher and visionary.

He was nominated for the Nobel Prize in Literature three times. He was nearly awarded the Nobel Prize in 1913 and is (at least among the people of Styria) something like a national hero to this day. (Wikipedia)

From our stacks: Cover detail from The Forest Schoolmaster By Peter Rosegger. Authorized Translation by Frances E. Skinner. New York and London: G. P. Putnam’s Sons. The Knickerbocker Press, 1902.

anonymous asked:

because you are so knowledgeable on polish history and lore, i was wondering - do you know any details of what life was like for poles in the 1850s? (sorry if this seems random, i just can't find any information about that time period really)

This is in fact an extremely broad topic because the Polish people lived under 3 entirely different Partitions back then. There could’ve been also huge differences even within different regions of each of the Partitions

Naturally, life was also very different for various social classes (peasants, townspeople, intelligentsia, and so on). Let’s take the peasants - the most numerous social class back then - as a quick example. 

Let’s say, the peasants living under the Austrian rule had a different life, worries and opportunities in the areas around Kraków, in the eastern ‘Kresy’ or in the highlands inside that Partition. In comparison to the other two Partitions, life was relatively easy in the political terms over there, and just like in the rest of the Austrian empire most of the ethnic groups were rather left alone (for example, free to move around or free to use their languages and continue their cultural traditions). On the other hand the Austrian authorities didn’t focus on developing or funding new infrastructure in that region and therefore the people suffered poverty much greater than in the other Partitions. It was so bad that towards the end of that century the region of Galicja was said to be the poorest in the whole Europe.

Then, there was much more of oppression in the other two Partitions, like law restrictions and the cultural Germanization / Russification that affected all the social classes. For the said example of the peasants, it meant that there were phases when they couldn’t move freely around, their culture and language were restricted or even their family members taken away, or they couldn’t find a job speaking their own language only (depending on what particular region and timeline are we taking into account). However, the 1850s were relatively calm in those matters.

1850s were the times when the Austrian and Prussian parts had already abolished the serfdom (it’s after the period of People’s Spring); while in the Russian part there was still a form of the payments and peasants were still organizing protests (it was fully abolished there only in 1860s and replaced by a land tax). For all the Partitions that meant a phase of huge changes in the agriculture and laws, different for each of the regions. People welcomed those changes with curiosity and a relief after the decades of the serfdom. Thanks to the abolition the rural culture in all of the parts received more freedom. For example, that was the time when the folk clothing started changing and receiving a form we know nowadays (after a better access to different materials, and without restrictions - among other things the old laws of serfdom were limiting the ‘looks’ of the people).

The Prussian part altogether had the most opportunities job-wise (but many only after receiving the education in German - for the people who spoke the Polish language only there were just less-paid simple jobs). Lots of areas being urbanized much quicker in that Partition led to the peasants developing a slightly different culture, much more resembling the culture of the townspeople than in the other Partitions. There was also the best access to schools out of all the Partitions. Not many offered classes in Polish but there were still many small rural schools where the peasants could learn how to read and receive a very basic education (Polish was banned only in the later decades what eventually led to numerous school strikes in Prussia in the late 19th century). 

In the Russian part there were much more opportunities for a higher education (for example, Russians were investing a lot in building of high schools and universities in big cities like Warsaw), but all of the classes were in Russian. Russian had become an ‘official academic language’ already after the uprisings of 1830s, and many topics were banned. The basic level of education still suffered, and many people couldn’t read or write in those rural regions which weren’t allowed to organize primary schools on their own. Another problem was also that a vast majority of the state-funded primary schools offered teaching the cyrilic script only (everything else was ‘undeground’).

In the Austrian part the Poles were free to organize schools and universities by themselves and in Polish, but as I mentioned above there was almost no state funds for them. Everything in this matter was developing extremely slow, and there was never enough schools for everyone who wanted to receive any form of education (while a lot of people wanted to, because that Partition was the most open border-wise). It was a bit better in the cities and towns, but the rural areas had a high level of analphabetism - depending on a source, even higher than in the Russian part.

Because of those kinds of factors, the daily life of the Polish people back then differed a lot between the regions where they lived. All of those things were affecting their living conditions and the way they worked or celebrated.

As you could see with those few examples, it’s very hard to answer your question in short. I looked around the internet quickly but (unfortunately) there’s indeed not much in English that would describe the 1850s in details. If you could give me an information which one of the Partitions interests you the most, I could maybe narrow my search or give a more detailed answer.

Does someone know any good book or article about that time period in English?

so there’s this story that my grandmother loves telling (well, in recent years. for the first seventy years of her life she did not talk about her childhood at all.)

the story is that a family friend of theirs was Austria’s finance minister*, and Jewish, and after the anschluss he realized he was in trouble, but like many of Austria’s Jews he seriously underestimated how much trouble. by the time he realized it was too late to get out safely. He was also old and in failing health, so dramatics weren’t ideal.

so he asked a family member to drive him to the mountains on the Italian-Austrian border, and he’d cross there. It was easy enough to avoid the Austrian authorities going out, but you didn’t have a chance of avoiding the Italian ones, and they stopped him. 

“Oh,” he said to them, “Benito knows me. Tell him I’m here and he’ll call me a car.” And indeed, they called Mussolini and he called him a car.

My reaction the first time I heard this story - and the reaction of everyone I’ve told it to - has been “so Mussolini opposed the Holocaust? He was helping smuggle Jews out of Austria?” And, no, he didn’t and wasn’t. But he knew this guy, they were old friends, the guy was in town, so Benito called him a car. Which is more characteristic of humans than the version where Mussolini was secretly a decent person, really. A million is a statistic, but this guy? I know this guy. He’s a great guy.

There’s the phrase ‘the banality of evil’, and I think it applies, but the word that’s always come to my mind is the myopia of evil, the tendency to treat People well but just not look out at the world and see billions of People, not believe that the principles you apply to the ones you know apply to all of them everywhere.

George deValier's 'My Echo' (APH SwissAus)

This is for all the George deValier (and Hetalia) fans. I know how upset everyone is about George taking down his promise on his profile to finish his stories no matter what, but I still believe he will!! Of course he will! Anyways… Here’s to cheer anyone up if they thought ‘My Echo’ was lost if, god forbid, he doesn’t update for quite awhile.

I copied this for myself back in… September I think?? Doesn’t matter… But I have everything exactly as the original (besides certain text in italics), and I plan to take this down the SECOND he restores ‘My Echo’ back online (whether that be in the new Lily outline or otherwise). Sadly, I do not have Jealousy too…

Again, this is for George’s fans who appreciate and admire his work as I do and miss this fic since he no longer has it up. For anyone who is unfamiliar with his AMAZING Hetalia stories, PLEASE go to his page and read anything there, they’re all incredible. I’ll stop my rambling now. Here’s George deValier’s ‘My Echo’ …..

Anime» Hetalia-AxisPowers Rated:M, English, Angst&Drama, Switzerland, Words:2k+, Favs:247, Follows:293, Published:Nov15, 2012

Pairing: Unrequited Vash Zwingli/RoderichEdelstein (Switzerland/Austria)

Summary: WW2 AU. Captain Vash Zwingli is a soldier in someone else’s war; a man mad enough to lead where others will not. He treads a fine line between life and death, between sanity and madness, in a constant battle to forget. But when Vash’s past confronts him in the worst place on earth, will it finally tip him over the edge–or give him a chance for redemption? Unrequited SwissAus. Tie-into ‘Lily of the Lamplight.’

This is a tie-in fic to my ongoing WW2 AU series. It will be a collection of short chapters and flash backs, from Vash’s point of view, following the main story line to my PruAus story, ‘Lily of the Lamplight.’It won’t make much sense unless you read that one also, I’m afraid. This first chapter takes place between Lily chapters two and three.


We three, We’re all alone, Living in a memory. My echo; my shadow; and me.

We three, We’ll wait for you, Even ‘til eternity. My echo; my shadow; and me.

Summer, 1943 The Russian Front

Captain Vash Zwingli walks slowly into the makeshift command hut, carefully shuts the door behind him, and with a steady, deliberate breath, leans his hands against his paper-strewn desk. The bare, wooden rooms of this silent, broken, abandoned house close in around him. Rage, frustration, fear, disbelief, overwhelming panic: a clashing cluster of emotion tears through his head, claws at his chest. Vash holds it back. Vash is so used to holding it back.

He tries to focus on the papers before him, on the reason he is here commanding this prison unit in the backwoods of Russia. Because here, Vash can control his fury and unleash his madness and chase his wildness. Here, Vash can lose himself in death; here, he can forget. But now…but this…The maps and strategies and letters of command blur before Vash’s eyes. Six years he has tried to escape one face; one name; one memory. Six brutal, blood-soaked years, shattered in an instant.

Master Roderich Edelstein. Vash’s breath catches to even think the name. Roderich Edelstein, standing in line like a common German criminal, disguised in military grey and using a name not his own. Vash fumbles for the flask at his waist, pours the clear, burning liquid down his throat. He fumbles for some sort of understanding. But all Vash can think is that Master Roderich Edelstein is still more beautiful than anything he has ever seen. He is still the only person Vash has ever wanted, needed, desired, yearned for with every last thread of his existence. He is the only man Vash has ever both loved and hated: stripped of his humanity, and sent here to die under Vash’s command.

“God DAMNIT!” Vash slams the flask on the desk. He closes his eyes, takes deep, slow, steady breaths. One… two… Not here. This is not the battlefield. He will not lose control here. Three… four… No use. Vash’s world turns red. With a furious roar, loosed like a gunshot from his throat, he over turns the desk and sends its mashing to the ground.

What the fuck is Roderich doing here?! It’s insane. It isn’t possible. He should have left Europe by now, should have escaped to America. Vash looks to the ceiling, runs shaking hands through his hair, kicks the broken desk with all his strength. His mind spins- too hot, too hazy, too fast– while every word Roderich spoke in their last exchange echoes through his head like a reverberating bullet of steel.

“I am not a soldier.” Vash laughs wildly, incredulously. Master Roderich Edelstein, a soldier! Master Edelstein, the delicate heir, who wears suits of cashmere and plays on ivory keys. Master Edelstein, whose fragile nobility could never protect him from the stones and insults of those less refined: Judenschwein! Judenscheisse! A rush of furious memory boils Vash’s blood. No, Master Edelstein is not a soldier. Master Edelstein belongs in parlour rooms and concert halls, not in this Russian hell. His hands belong to crystal glasses and violin strings, not to rifles and grenades.

“I don’t really know.” Vash strides to the wall, clenches his fist, smashes it against the cracking wood. Roderich never knew. He never saw. Roderich was blind to all but his music, blind even to the Swiss town’s hatred, blind to everything but his own small, closed, perfect world. The hours Vash sat listening outside the music room window- the days he spent watching and wanting and sheltering and protecting. Roderich never understood; he never knew.

“Rather, it pleased them too much. There are certain things I will not be associated with…” Vash feels blood run between his fingers. How very like his prideful aristocrat- always better than those who mocked and those who protected. Who did he offend this time? Who did he ignore? Who did Roderich Edelstein finally insult enough to end up in this last destination for the ruined and the condemned?

“…Nor let my music be associated with.” Of course: the music. What else would Roderich Edelstein sacrifice himself for? What else would he care about? Roderich does not even remember him. Of course Vash’s haughty, infuriating, beautiful Austrian genius does not remember him. Vash was never important or memorable. Vash was simply there.

By now Vash is frantic, desperate, his tenuous grip on control fading fast. He tries to pace, tries to breathe. The walls are too close. One… two… What can he do? How can he possibly ensure Roderich’s safety out here? Send Roderich back to Austria– he has not the authority. Transfer Roderich to a regular unit– where he will certainly be killed before the week is over. Just take Roderich and run– run where? How?

Vash roars again, his veins burning in furious frustration. His mind begins to blur; his control slips. Three… four… No use. With one swift movement he pulls the pistol from his hip, cocks it, and aims it at the wall.

“No. I’m just a musician.”

Vash feels the world turn… and he remembers.


Autumn, 1933 Amanorhousein Switzerland


It begins softly. A gentle, falling line of trickling sound, like the flow of water in a summer stream or an early morning birdcall at the foot of the mountains. The falling lines bind together, slowly become something Vash recognizes as music. Vash has not heard much music before. His days are spent tending the Edelstein estate gardens and caring for its extensive grounds, not reclining in its drawing rooms and fine salons. He is only in the house now to fix a leaking roof, and he knows it is not his place to go where he pleases. But Vash detests these rich Austrians’ authority, and he is not a dog to be kept outside. So he makes his way steadily down the unfamiliar, ornately decorated hallway of the mansion, drawn to that delicate, falling, rising, swelling melody.

The music becomes louder, until Vash finally reaches the doorway it drifts through. The door is half open, and Vash peers through it, curious as to how something so light and fragile can draw him so strongly. The room is long and wide, polished wooden floors gleaming in the sunlight that streams through ceiling-length windows. It is empty except for a single object: a large, shining black grand piano, the source of the gentle music. And sitting before it…

The music fades. The sunlight darkens. Vash’s eyes flare and his breath stutters. His heart grows in his chest, lifts and swells and fills every part of him. His whole world, his entire life narrows to this one place; this one moment; to this one dark, pale, stunning stranger. The boy’s hair is the colour of chestnuts in autumn; his skin the colour of mountain peaks in winter. His eyes are bright and faraway, trapped behind locks of hair and wire spectacles. He moves with the music, lost in it, his fingers flying on the white keys like birds dancing in the wind. Vash has to gasp for air, has to grasp the door handle beside him. This boy is more beautiful than anything Vash has ever seen.

Vash has heard that the Edelstein’s have a son. His sister Lili is still young enough to pass gossip on from the chambermaids, and she has spoken before of a genius- a musician named Roderich, who stays in Vienna when his hateful parents visit their country estate here in Switzerland. This must be him. He is a few years younger than Vash, barely in his teens, and Vash can easily believe the stories that he is too frail to travel. Stunned and unmoving, Vash watches him; watches his white hands fly and his slender body sway and his lips part then press then catch between his teeth. Vash watches Roderich open his unseeing eyes and close them tightly, watches him tilt his head and lift his shoulders and draw lines of gentle sound from a hard row of black and white. But Vash no longer hears the music. He does not see the sunlight; he does not feel the heavy door handle beneath his sweaty palm. Vash is somewhere removed, struck senseless by this beautiful Austrian musician, by this pale, noble vision of perfection.

Vash barely notices when Roderich finishes playing. He just watches. Watches as he stands, brushes back his hair, adjusts his glasses; as he gathers pages of music in his arms then turns and strides across the room. He wears a dark, elegant suit, and though it looks too old and severe, Roderich wears it like it is part of him. He does not notice Vash until he reaches the door. When he does he swiftly halts, clutches his music to his chest, and stares silently with eyes like frozen violets. Vash’s hand clenches dangerously to the door handle, his cheeks too hot and his head too light. He tries to think of something to say. He should have something to say. Roderich looks him up and down; raises an eyebrow disdainfully at Vash’s feet. Vash looks down at his muddy boots, strangely embarrassed. He takes a step back to allow Roderich through the door. The boy takes a few seconds to do so, edging away from Vash, his lips pressed together and his eyes looking down.

The edge of Roderich’s coat brushes Vash’s arm. The delicate scent of lilacs in bloom floats on the air. Vash feels the door handle start to crack. He should say something… he has to say something… “That… the music,” he stutters, unfamiliar and unsure of these pleasantries. It is so hard for him to speak. “It was… good.”

Roderich just raises his chin as he marches away, elegant and pale and dark and beautiful. He does not respond.




The crack of a gunshot blasts through the air. Vash’s senses flood back. The first thing he notices is that his pistol is still in his grip. The second is that the shot was not fired by him. Vash blinks the past from his eyes, returns the pistol to its holster, and runs a steadying hand through his hair. Deep, slow, steady breaths. One… two…

A quick glance out the window and across the village square solves the mystery of the gunshot. The enormous Swede sits beside a small fire, his rifle in his hands and pointed at the sky. Vash smirks at the sight. He knows now he let Oxenstierna keep his rifle for a reason. Two men stare down at the Swede -insignificants. The dense little Pole sits there also, and that arrogant Prussian, and… Vash’s senses slip and his stomach falls. Roderich. He reaches for his pistol, and starts to move. But something stops him.

Across the square, the Prussian smiles and speaks. The Swede fires another shot. Vash watches as the insignificants react, as one tosses a pack of cigarettes to the Prussian. He watches as Beilschmidt waves a hand dismissively and the two men stalk away. Vash watches as the men around Beilschmidt, willingly or not, do as he orders. And he watches as Roderich’s frozen violet eyes do not move once from the Prussian.

Vash’s grip on the pistol tightens. He searches his memory, recalls his profile folder: Gilbert Beilschmidt. The self-proclaimed Prussian private, with the famous pilot brother; the desperate survivor, who angers so easily and dislikes authority and starts fights in transport trucks. The Prussian private who protected Roderich from an attack at their last base. The Prussian private who is here on suspicion of illicit activity…

Vash’s gut churns and his mind tilts. Illicit activity. Roderich. He forces himself to turn away. One… two. He reaches down into the scattered debris of his overturned desk, retrieves his discarded metal flask from under a scattered page of orders. Vash drinks deeply as he scans the words for distraction. Your unit fights tomorrow… Kalova village… need corporals… Vash looks up sharply, the words firing his mind and the vodka warming his blood.

Kalova village… This unit fights tomorrow… need corporals… This unit needs men whose orders are followed– willingly or not. Vash looks to these orders, looks to his pistol. He cannot protect Roderich out here. Not observably, and not on his own. But the Prussian… Vash crumples the paper in his hand, sees nothing but Roderich’s violet eyes: wide and uncertain in an ornate hallway; confused and unaware in a military line-up. Vash breathes–two, three –calms, and grasps for the only option he has.

Yes, this unit fights tomorrow, and is not expected to survive. No, Vash cannot protect Roderich out here- but he can ensure another man does. Even if this man draws Roderich’s eyes; even if the charge is illicit activity. But as Vash smoothes his ruffled uniform and drinks from his flask and takes a lighter from his pocket, he cannot help but smile to himself. Because Vash has long learnt not to underestimate desperate men.


Arthur Schnitzler (15 May 1862 – 21 October 1931) 

Austrian author and dramatist. Schnitzler’s works were often controversial, both for their frank description of sexuality (in a letter to Schnitzler Sigmund Freud confessed “I have gained the impression that you have learned through intuition – although actually as a result of sensitive introspection – everything that I have had to unearth by laborious work on other persons”) and for their strong stand against anti-Semitism, represented by works such as his play Professor Bernhardi and his novel Der Weg ins Freie. Schnitzler’s works were called “Jewish filth” by Adolf Hitler and were banned by the Nazis in Austria and Germany.  (Wikipedia)

From our stacks: Cover detail and frontispiece “Arthur Schnitzler. Photo: D’Ova, Vienna.” from The Green Cockatoo and Other Plays By Arthur Schnitzler. Translated into English by Horace B. Samuel. Chicago: A. C. McClurg & Co., 1913.

Today, July 28, is the 100th anniversary of the outbreak of the First World War. On this day in 1914, the Austro-Hungarian Empire declared war on the Kingdom of Serbia when Serbia refused to accept a series of demands made by Austria-Hungary in the wake of the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand (June 28, 1914). The demands themselves were clearly unacceptable, threatening Serbia’s sovereignty as an independent nation, and had been calculated by the Austrians to be so, thereby creating a pretext for war. Tensions between the two nations were very high during the early 20th Century and can be traced to Serbian ambitions to unite all of the South Slavic peoples, many of whom lived under Austro-Hungarian control. The radical pro-unification Black Hand (made up of Serbian Army officers) had supported the assassins responsible for the Archduke’s murder. The Emperor of Austria-Hungary, Franz Joseph, had seized upon the assassination as a pretext to neutralize the Serbian threat to Austrian authority in the Balkans.
However excessive and unjust, Austria-Hungary’s actions (a Great Power using threats and military force against a weaker opponent for imperialistic purposes) were not particularly unusual. The other Great Powers (including Russia, France, and Britain) had all used similar tactics over the past century, which had contributed to the growth of their vast empires. The conflict could have remained a “little war” like so many that had been conducted around the globe before it. But in this case, Serbia had another Great Power as a protector: the Russian Empire, which had its own Balkan ambitions and which had no intention of abandoning Serbia.
In response to the Austro-Hungarian declaration of war, Russia began a partial mobilization of its forces on July 29. In response to Russia, Germany (Austria-Hungary’s ally, who had already given Austria-Hungary a virtual “blank cheque” of support in its dealing with Serbia) began its own mobilization, which in turn provoked Russia to begin full-scale mobilization and preparation for war. Germany demanded Russian demobilization or face a declaration of war, and when this was not done, Germany declared war.

The declaration of war against Russia provoked French mobilization (Russia and France were allies), which in turn provoked Germany’s declaration of war against France. At this point, the conflict in the Balkans was transformed from a local war into a pan-European war the likes of which had not been seen since the Napoleonic Wars. The Great War had begun.

Tolerance means excusing the mistakes others make. Tact means not noticing them.
—  Arthur Schnitzler, Austrian author and dramatist. Schnitzler’s works were often controversial, both for their frank description of sexuality (in a letter to Schnitzler Sigmund Freud confessed “I have gained the impression that you have learned through intuition – although actually as a result of sensitive introspection – everything that I have had to unearth by laborious work on other persons”) and for their strong stand against anti-Semitism, represented by works such as his play Professor Bernhardi and his novel Der Weg ins Freie.  However, although Schnitzler was himself Jewish, Professor Bernhardi and Fräulein Else are among the few clearly identified Jewish protagonists in his work. Schnitzler died on 21 October 1931, in Vienna, of a brain hemorrhage.  (1862-1931)

Favourite writers (in no particular order)
9/50 Joseph Roth 02.09.1894 -27.05.1939

“That was how things were back then. Anything that grew took its time growing, and anything that perished took a long time to be forgotten. But everything that had once existed left its traces, and people lived on memories just as they now live on the ability to forget quickly and emphatically.”


November 10th 1938.

German and Austrian civilians and authorities take part in a state pogrom, destroying Jewish businesses, synagogues, schools and ultimately, lives.

Home Work

Miraculous Ladybug

Word Count: 801

“Princess.” The nickname comes out like a purr from his throat, vibrating in his chest and through the air. She doesn’t even bother to look up. It’s just Cat Noir. Marinette knows his voice like the back of her hand and Tikki’s favourite rosettes. Just her partner and his puns and weak worry and a lonely heart that wants some company late at night.

“Kitty, have you finished your homework?”

“As much as I’m pleased that you care about my education, I don’t think that should’ve been the first thing you said to me.”

Marinette sighs, spinning in her chair to see her leather bound kitty, hair ruffled from his trip through the city streets. She doesn’t always see him after a mission, but when she does there’s always a reason. He might not always talk about it, but normally just being around her seems to lighten whatever load he’s carrying and that is enough for her. “Hello, Cat Noir.” He grins and waits for her to give him permission to sit on her bed, which she does with a dismissive wave of her hand. “I’m just going to finish this question and then I can get you some tea, alright?”

“Take your time, Princess. I’ve got all afternoon.”

“Shouldn’t you be doing something like patrolling? Or perhaps working?”

“How do you know I have a civilian job?”

She pauses, pen hovering over the next line for a split second before continuing on as before. He has mentioned a part-time job to Ladybug, not Marinette. She has to be more careful. “Lucky guess.”

Keep reading


Heroic Women of 1848

Not too much told of them, but there were women in Hungary, who supported the revolution and freedom fight of 1848/49 not only from the background, with advises, speeches, donations and nursing the injured ones, but fought themselves too on the battlefields! Neither historians know exact numbers, as most of them wore men’s clothes and registered herself as a man, (mainly in the name of their husband) when marching in. But some of them – Marit Nyári, Jankát Szentpál, Apollónia Jagello, Karolina Megyesi, Mária Csizmárovits, Anna Vida – can be mentioned by name. Also, some women – Mária Lebstück, Paulina Pfiffner and Júlia Bányai – served in rank of an officer in the revolutionary army of Hungary.

Júlia Bányai originally was an equestrienne –no wonder, she was able to fight on horseback! - , who marched in as Gyula Bányai. Thanks to her excellent knowledge of French and German, she even made some important spyworks too. József Bem, the legendary colonel of the Hungarian Army honoured her for her services with the rank of captaincy. After the fall of the freedom fight Júlia went to exile to Turkey. She returned to Transylvania in 1851, and participated in a new movement agains the Austrian Empire, which was unveiled. She lef again to Turkey and died in Cairo in 1883.

Countess Blanka Teleki de Szék fought not on the battlefield, but gave years from her freedom for Hungary. She was a Hungarian revolutionary, and a pioneer advocate for equal rights of women in culture. She was born in a Hungarian noble family of Transylvania. Her father, Imre Teleki was active in the preparation of the Revolution of 1848. Her aunt Theresia Brunswik , who took her abroad in her travels, and also had a great influence on Blanka, was the founder of the first nurseries in Hungary. In 1846 Blanka opened the first high-school for girls in Hungary, to educate the Hungarian aristicrats’s children in a patriotic way. Blanka Teleki was active in the revolution too, and authored a manifesto in which she demanded equal rights for women, including the right to higher education. The high-school was closed in 1849, and the staff was forced to flee. Blanka Teleki’s correspondence was intercepted by the Austrian authorities and she was arrested due to her support to the revolution. After her trial she was sentenced to death, but her sentence was commuted to life imprisonment. She was imprisoned in Brno, Olomouc, and finally in the famed castle of Kufstein. Blanka Teleki was released from prison in 1858 and went to Paris where her sister, Emma had settled. She spent the rest of her life here, helping Hungarian refugees and activating to promote the cause of Hungarian nationalists. She died in Paris in 1862 and was interred at the Montparnasse cemetery.

Countess Antónia Zichy was a Hungarian noblewoman and wife of Lajos Batthány, the first Prime Minister of the independent Hungary during the revolution of 1848. They married on 4th December 1834. The countess with her advises and donations helped the work of her husband from the beginnings. She wore always Hungarian national costumes and bought always Hungarian products, showing an important example for the rest of the women. When Count Batthány was imprisoned after falling the freedom fight of Hungary, she did her all and very best for his release. Finally Batthány was sentenced to be executed by hanging up. The countess found a way to send him a tuck, wich Battyány was able to wound himself (note: the heroic count did not intended to commit suicide, but to avoid the dishonouring hanging! He was shot then, for his neck-injuries). Countess Antónia wore mourning till up to the end of her life, and was buried with the last letter from her husband placed on her bust.