Ludwig the Second, King of Bavaria

LUDWIG THE SECOND

KING OF BAVARIA

LUDWIG THE SECOND

KING OF BAVARIA

BY
CLARA TSCHUDI
AUTHOR OF “MARIE ANTOINETTE,” “EUGÉNIE, EMPRESS OF THE FRENCH,” “MARIA SOPHIA, QUEEN OF NAPLES,” ETC. ETC.
TRANSLATED FROM THE NORWEGIAN
BY
ETHEL HARRIET HEARN

“Certains caractères échappent à l’analyse logique.”

George Sand.

WITH COLOURED PORTRAIT
London
SWAN SONNENSCHEIN & CO. LIM.
NEW YORK: E. P. DUTTON & CO.
1908

CONTENTS

LUDWIG THE SECOND
KING OF BAVARIA

CHAPTER I

Descent and Education

At the birth of Ludwig II., enigmatic as he was unfortunate, of whom I propose to give a sketch, his grandfather, the eccentric Ludwig I., was still King of Bavaria. His father, Maximilian Joseph, was the Crown Prince. The latter had wedded, in 1842, the beautiful Princess Marie of Prussia, who was only sixteen years of age at the time of her marriage, her husband being twenty years her senior.

To all appearance the marriage was a very happy one. Maximilian was an intelligent and right-thinking man, devoted to public duty, but he had indifferent health, and, like the greater number of his race, was the possessor of a sensitive nervous system. For some years it appeared as if the marriage would be childless. At the beginning of the year 1845, however, the people of Bavaria were informed that the Crown Princess was enceinte, and on the 25th of August, on the birthday of the reigning King, a hundred and one guns proclaimed the birth of a prince at the château of Nymphenburg.

As a matter of fact, the princely infant had seen the light two days earlier, but the event had been kept a secret in order to give Ludwig I. a pleasant surprise, the King having expressed a wish that a possible hereditary prince might come into the world on that day. The child was named after him, and he held it himself at the font.

The old King at that time was at the height of his popularity. Soon, however, a turning-point set in: the dancer Lola Montez invaded the lovesick Monarch’s life, causing a violent insurrection in the Bavarian capital. Then came the democratic rising of 1848, general all over Europe, which threw fuel on the fire. Ludwig was compelled to abdicate, and was succeeded by his son, Maximilian Joseph, who ascended the throne under the title of Maximilian II.

Shortly after these political disturbances took place the young Queen was brought to bed of another son, who was named Otto.[1] The effect on her of the alarm and excitement caused by the aforesaid events, was such that he came into the world three months too early. The physicians declared that it was impossible for the child to live, but they proved to be mistaken in their opinion.

Both the Crown Prince and his brother were unusually good-looking, and it was a brilliant sight when the popular and beautiful Queen walked about the streets of Munich, with her handsome boys beside her. Maternal joy and pride shone from her eyes, and the glance of the people was directed with genuine admiration on her and her children. Otto was the one who most resembled his mother. Being, moreover, lighthearted and accessible, he was also the one to whom the prize of beauty was awarded by popular opinion. Ludwig’s beauty was of a more uncommon and intellectual type, a noteworthy feature of his face being the large, brilliant, and dark-blue eye. The boys were always dressed each in his particular colour, which the Queen herself had chosen. Otto in red, and Ludwig in blue—the national colours of Bavaria. Not only were Ludwig’s clothes blue in tint, but also, as far as was possible, his various other small possessions and necessities; such, for instance, as the binding of his books, his drawing portfolios, and his volumes of music. This hue always continued to be his favourite colour.

Possessed of good sense in many ways, Ludwig’s parents seem to have been deficient in their insight into the difficult matter of bringing up their eldest son. The father was too strict, and made demands on the Crown Prince with which his abilities and strength did not allow of his complying. In season and out of season he reminded him that some time or other he would be a king. He was thoughtlessly punished whether he deserved it or whether his delinquencies were of so insignificant a nature as to demand a certain indulgence. Ludwig was not allowed to be a child. All his toys were early taken from him. He had, for instance, a tortoise of which he was particularly fond, but it was not long before this too was removed by the King’s especial order. The Queen made no attempt independently to combat this unnatural bringing up; nor does she or the King seem to have been alive to the fact that the peculiarities of the Crown Prince’s character required handling with caution.

He was simultaneously the object in other quarters of a directly opposite and still more pernicious treatment. His nurse “Liesi” adored and spoiled him. When he became a little older he was given a French governess, who seems to have had a positively unfortunate influence upon him. Her great admiration was the French Roi Soleil, Louis XIV., and she made no secret of forming her pupil upon this model. Well-known utterances of the Grand Monarque, such as “L’état c’est moi!” “Tel est notre bon plaisir,” and the like, were held up to the royal pupil as models of parlance which ought to be copied; while at the same time the governess gave expression in her looks and words to the subservience which she considered becoming for a subject to show to a future monarch. She never asked if he had been diligent and good. “The Crown Prince is always the first,” she repeated invariably. A teacher of the French language, who succeeded this lady, acted and comported himself in a similar spirit, and contributed further to pervert the childish mind. As an example of his method of education may be mentioned the fact that le très gracieux prince royal, among other things, was allowed to roll his teacher on the floor like a barrel.

In such circumstances Ludwig’s egotism could not but be developed. Episodes from his childhood bear witness that a decided vein of caprice and sense of his own importance were early to be noticed in him. The following is a trait from the time when he was twelve years of age, during a sojourn at Berchtesgaden. He was at play in the park, with his brother. Without the slightest provocation he suddenly threw Otto, three years younger than himself, on to the grass, planted his knee firmly on the latter’s chest, stuffed his handkerchief into his mouth, and shouted commandingly: “You are my subject; you must obey me! Some time I shall be your king!” Happily a courtier was witness of this scene, and running forward, he dragged Otto, who was almost suffocated, from his brother’s violent grasp. The incident came to the ears of the King. He gave his first-born a sound thrashing in true burgher fashion. This corporal punishment had not, however, the desired effect on the exceedingly sensitive boy; and its result seems solely to have been embitterment against his father. So much, indeed, did he take the mortification of it to heart, that later he literally shunned Berchtesgaden.

One winter day in 1859 the two princes were together in the so-called “English Garden,” in Munich. Otto was rolling a large snowball, and called out to his brother, in glee: “See, Ludwig, I have a snowball that is bigger than your head!” Ludwig took it from him. Otto began to cry. Their tutor came up and asked what was the matter. “Ludwig has taken my snowball,” sobbed Otto. “Your Royal Highness,” said the tutor, “if Prince Otto has made a snowball it belongs to him, and you have no right to take it.” “Have I no right to take the snowball? What am I Crown Prince for, then?” asked Ludwig in dudgeon.

A gentleman well known to Maximilian, and who was frequently invited to his shooting parties, informs me that he very seldom saw the little princes when he visited the King. Once when he was walking in the gardens of the castle of Hohenschwangau, however, he came upon an open space where the King’s sons happened to be playing. Ludwig had swung himself up on to a paling, and was running backwards and forwards on it. The visitor reminded him that he might fall and hurt himself. The boy, however, took no notice of the well-meant warning, and its only result was that he increased his antics. The gentleman, who was really afraid that an accident might happen, now took him by force in his arms and lifted him down. The Crown Prince glanced proudly at him; then began to play with his brother, as if no third person was present. Many years afterwards, long after Ludwig had become King, the same gentleman reminded him of this occurrence. “I remember very well,” answered his Majesty coldly, “that you touched me at that time,” and then turned the subject of conversation.

A strict system of economy formed a part of Maximilian’s curriculum. The royal princes were only allowed the plainest food. Sweetmeats the Crown Prince tasted only through the generosity of his nurse Liesi, who was in the habit of buying sweets for her favourite out of her own pocket—a kindness which Ludwig always remembered, and which he rewarded as soon as he became King. When the princes grew bigger they were allowed pocket-money, to the amount of about a shilling a week—hardly a princely appanage. Otto one day hit upon a means, as he hoped, of improving his financial position. Having heard that sound teeth fetched as much as ten guldens apiece, he betook himself to one of the Munich dentists, and offered him one of his best molars at that price. The dentist knowing who he was, did not, of course, accept the offer. When the occurrence became known to the King, the prince was severely punished. The episode, however, seems to have brought the Queen to reflection, and she caused the princes’ pocket-money to be augmented from that day.

On his eighteenth birthday Ludwig for the first time received a sum of any consideration, his father presenting him with a purse containing a specimen of every coin at that time current in Bavaria. The youth, who had never before had anything in his pocket but a few coppers, imagined that he had suddenly become a wealthy man, and hastened off to buy and present to his mother a locket, which she had admired in a jeweller’s shop. He made no inquiries as to the price, but when the jeweller observed that he would send the ornament and the bill to the Palace, said with importance, handing him his purse: “No, I have money of my own now. Here, pay yourself for the ornament!”

Between the Crown Prince and his father there was never any great feeling of tenderness, but he was without doubt very much attached to his mother. The circumstances attending the birth of Prince Otto had, however, given her a preference for her younger son; and when Ludwig in his childish years endeavoured to talk to her of his ideas and impressions, the very prosaic Queen showed a remarkable want of comprehension of his poet’s nature. Apart from occasional friction, the relations between the brothers were peaceful and good. The younger one always took the second place, and the modesty with which he did this was no doubt the chief reason why the two were good friends. The entire character and turn of mind of the Crown Prince, his ideas, pleasures, and sympathies, were absolutely different from those of Otto, and of any real confidence on his side there could consequently be no possibility. Ludwig preferred solitude. Otto was gay and sociable. Ludwig was interested in art, and occupied himself with flowers; his brother loved military matters, and was a keen sportsman. Two interests, however, they had in common: both were from childhood first-rate, almost foolhardy, riders, and both loved music and singing.

They had only two playmates, namely Prince Ludwig of Hesse, who spent part of his childhood at the court of his aunt Queen Marie, and Count Holstein, who now and then was allowed to visit them. The Crown Prince was considered to be highly gifted. From his earliest youth his memory was unusually good, and he often reduced his teachers to despair by the puzzling questions he would put to them. Meanwhile he was only diligent in the subjects which interested him, and lazy and indifferent concerning those which did not please him. His teachers were able and upright men, but towards the greater number of them he was very reserved. With a few exceptions they were powerless and at their wit’s end before this peculiar character, which perplexed them by its contradictions and alarmed them by its outbursts of violence.

Thus grew up the Bavarian Crown Prince; in surroundings which left him partly neglected and misunderstood and partly perverted his understanding, and in circumstances which were fitted to develop his already naturally marked egotism and feeling of self-esteem.

[1] Otto was born on the 27th of April 1848. He is the present bearer of the title of King of Bavaria. [↑]

CHAPTER II

Fundamental Traits of Ludwig’s Character

Ludwig’s tutor, the Count de Larosée, has expressed his conception of his pupil’s character in the following words: “The Crown Prince is intelligent and highly gifted. He is already possessed of abilities which far exceed the ordinary. His imagination is so vivid, that I have seldom seen its equal in so young a man; but he is hasty and exceedingly quick-tempered. A more than strongly developed wilfulness points to a stubbornness of character which is perhaps inherited from his grandfather, and which it will be difficult for him to control.” This “character” was written out by the Count on the day upon which Ludwig filled his eighteenth year, and on the tutor’s retirement from his responsible position.

The Crown Prince had not merely inherited his grandfather’s obstinacy, but resembled in other ways his father’s father and his own namesake. Like him he was an idealist and Schwärmer, with distinct leanings towards æstheticism.

Henrik Ibsen, in his play of Ghosts, allows the characteristics of the progenitor to show themselves already in the first generation. This is not commonly the case. Far more frequently do the good and the bad “family ghosts” come out in the second generation; and it may almost be said that there are daily proofs that the son has more often the faults and good qualities of his grandsire than of his sire. Such was the case with Crown Prince Ludwig. To his careful, intelligent, and conscientious father he had indeed little resemblance; but his grandfather, the eccentric, stubborn, enthusiastic Ludwig I., “walked” in the grandson—not indeed “over again,” as the saying is, but in a new edition, changed in various ways though in other points easily recognisable. On his mother’s side there was also an enthusiast in the family. Friedrich Wilhelm IV. of Prussia was Queen Marie of Bavaria’s first cousin, the son of her sister. There was in Ludwig’s tastes and turn of mind much that resembled this Prussian King, who in contrast to the greater number of the Hohenzollerns took a greater interest in science and art than in the profession of arms. But, nevertheless, Ludwig II. was unique in his way. He was a peculiar, strange figure in the midst of his immediate surroundings—an enigma to his own race, as he was to his own people! He seems rather to have belonged to another race than to the Teutonic one, and another age than the nineteenth century. There are traits in his character which lead our thoughts back to the times of Greek and Roman antiquity. In his instincts and his passions he was closely allied to the Roman Emperor Hadrian. In one respect, however, he was very modern, namely in his love of a mountain life. He loved the alps; and it is characteristic of this shy King, who would hardly undertake a journey that was not to his pleasure palaces, that he repeatedly visited the alpine country par excellence, namely, Switzerland.

He inherited from both his parents his delight in the mountains. The royal family were in the habit of spending the summers at Schloss Hohenschwangau, in the Bavarian highlands, not far from Munich. This was in reality an old castle, built a thousand years back in time, but entirely reconstructed by Maximilian when he was Crown Prince.[1]

Many historical reminiscences and legends are connected with the castle, whose halls are filled with memorials of days gone by, and whose walls are decorated with pictures of Lohengrin and the swan in every conceivable aspect. It is said that Hohenschwangau provided Tannhäuser with a night’s shelter when he was returning from his pilgrimage to Rome. Martin Luther, too, during the time of the Reformation, when he was in need and danger, is supposed to have sought refuge in this castle, which is also known by the name of the Wartburg of Bavaria.

King Maximilian felt himself in better health after he had spent the summer there, and with his wife, who was a bold climber, was in the habit of going walking tours in the neighbouring country. Hohenschwangau was the Queen’s favourite place of residence. She was unassuming, and exceedingly simple in her tastes, the charming Marie finding her greatest pleasure in housewifely occupations. On tablecloths which she had woven herself, she served fish caught by her own hands. When in the country she was in the habit of going about in a large kitchen apron, she dusted her own china and ornaments, and took an innocent pleasure in washing up the used coffee-cups. Moreover, she caused to be fitted up at Hohenschwangau, a spinning-room in which she diligently turned her wheel for the benefit of the poor of the neighbourhood.

To their son Ludwig these visits were also a source of pleasure, albeit in a manner differing from that of the other members of the family. The great solitude had the effect on the boy’s impressionable mind of a release from oppressive chains. Here, with his romantic disposition, the child found food for his vivid imagination; here he could dream himself into the legendary lore of olden days, and give free rein to his longing for the marvellous. On the quiet paths he could immerse himself in the German classics, chiefly in the works of Schiller, which spoke in living words to his heart and mind, and he would at times spend half a day in declaiming the resounding verses of his favourite poet.

Strictly as he was brought up by his parents, he was at times left too much to himself. He would withdraw in his free hours to solitude and give himself up to day-dreams. “How dull your Royal Highness must find the want of occupation,” said his tutor, Dean von Döllinger, to him one day when he found him sitting alone in a dark room on account of a slight eye affection. “Why do you not let some one read aloud to you?” “I am not dull,” answered the Prince, “I am thinking out different things, and I amuse myself very well in this manner.”

There are strange contrasts in Ludwig’s character; on the one side a yearning to escape from humanity, with its unnatural and stilted aspects, to unalloyed nature, to the stillness, the prayerful solemnity of solitude; on the other, even in his early years, an enthusiastic love of plastic art, combined with a delight in effective representations, for artificial brilliancy and pomp. So much, indeed, was this the case, that the thought cannot but arise in the mind that he was intended rather for the stage than for a throne. The life of the human community seemed to have no particular interest, and still less attraction, for him. He stood uncomprehending, and in a measure uncomprehended, before even the circle in which he lived.

But the serious moment was approaching. He had filled his eighteenth year; duties and responsibilities awaited him. He was now about to step out into public life.

[1] According to tradition, a knight by the name of Schwangau was the original builder of the castle. Another account, which is probably quite as near the truth, connects the name of Hohenschwangau with the legend of the Knights of the Swan. [↑]

CHAPTER III

“Le Roi est mort! Vive le Roi!”

A feeling of gloom and sadness rested over Munich; Maximilian II. was dying.

On the 9th of March, 1864, he signed in his bed the last documents of his reign. The same evening the doctors relinquished all hope of being able to save his life. It had long been known that he was a sick man, but no one had had any idea that his last hour was approaching. The news, which was quickly spread, filled the capital with dismay and lamentations. Immense crowds of people penetrated into the courtyard of the Palace, and gazed up at their ruler’s windows.

Snow and rain fell heavily. The wind howled, but no one seemed to notice it. No longer was it possible to expect news which might bring consolation. All were thinking the same thought: “Our good King is dying!” The sorrow over the whole country was indescribable. At four in the morning on the 10th of March the physician-in-ordinary informed the sick man that he must prepare himself for death, telling him at the same time that his confessor was in the Palace. “Has it come to this?” asked Maximilian, who felt exceedingly weak but suffered little pain. “Well, well—God will do the best for me! I have always wished what was right.” A believer, he made his confession and received extreme unction.

His despairing wife had spent the night in the sick-room. The eighteen-year-old Crown Prince was now with his father. The King had a prolonged private conversation with him, warning him, counselling him, and endeavouring at the eleventh hour to gain the confidence of his son, who had always withdrawn shyly into himself and whose character was to him a riddle.

He took an affecting and affectionate farewell of the Queen and both his children, blessing them, and expressing a hope of reunion. “My son,” he said to his successor, “I hope for you a death as quiet as your father’s!” These were his last words. It would almost seem as if the veil over the events of the future was lifted at this time to the view of the dying king, and that he saw things which made him suspect or fear his son’s tragic ending. The Archbishop spoke words of consolation to the dying man as he at midday, without a struggle, was called to the eternal rest. Ludwig swooned with the strength of his emotions. Later in life he was heard to say how painfully it had impressed him that he had been greeted as the Sovereign as he left his father’s deathbed. “The Lord has taken a good king away from us! Let us pray that He will give us as good a king again!” said the Archbishop to the assembled courtiers, who were waiting outside. All fell on their knees; tears and sobs filled the room. The capital and the kingdom were weighed down by the pain of their loss.

The sorrow at the demise of a highly venerated prince was mingled with sympathy for his successor, who had been brought up so strictly and in such loneliness. A heavy burden had with the mantle of kingship been laid on his shoulders; the father’s early death was no doubt a misfortune to the son. The seeds of mental morbidness which were slumbering within him would hardly have shot so soon into growth, nor perhaps would Maximilian’s principles of education have brought about such distressing consequences, had not Ludwig become King when he was in the midst of his development. He was too young and unformed to be able to support without injury this forcible and sudden transition. All the doors which previously had been shut to him were now opened wide. All sought his favour. He was worshipped and applauded, while his most commonplace utterances were given the character of winged words.

On the 12th of March he took the oath to the Constitution, in the presence of the royal princes and the members of the Council of State. The Minister of Foreign Affairs made a speech, which the new King answered in the following words:

“Almighty God has called my dear, greatly-beloved father away from this world. I cannot give utterance to the feelings with which my heart is filled. The task awaiting me is great and arduous. I trust in God, Who will send me light and strength to fill it. I will govern faithfully, in conformity with the oath which I have just taken, and in conformity with the Constitution which has now existed for nearly half-a-century. The welfare of my beloved Bavarians, and the greatness of Germany, will be the object of my efforts. I ask of all your assistance in the fulfilment of my arduous duties.”

Ludwig became popular without any effort whatever on his side; the Bavarians are a loyal race, and strong ties knit the people and the royal house together. Nor was the Monarch’s sympathetic appearance without its effect. All were struck by his beauty and attractive personality.

An Austrian writer who saw and talked with him soon after his accession, several years afterwards expressed himself in the following terms:

“He was the handsomest youth I ever saw. His tall, slim figure was perfectly symmetrical. His abundant, lightly curling hair, and the slight indication of a beard lent to his head a likeness to those great antique works of art, through which we have found the representation of the Hellenic conception of manly strength. Even had he been a beggar he must have attracted my attention. No person, whether old or young, rich or poor, could remain unaffected by the charm of his whole person. His voice was agreeable. The questions he asked were concise and decided, his subjects were well-chosen and intellectual, and he expressed himself easily and naturally. The admiration he aroused in me has never diminished, but on the contrary has increased with years. The picture of the young Monarch is still imprinted in unfading colours on my mind.”

Another German writer, Paul Heyse, met the young King about the same time, and has likewise published his impressions of him. He is not quite so enthusiastic in his admiration, but seems also to have been impressed. “The large eyes,” says Heyse, “were dreamy, the glance winning. What he said was entirely without any trace of embarrassment. His judgment of those in his proximity was unusually certain, and his knowledge of human nature wonderful, in view of his lonely education, so far away from the world.”

CHAPTER IV

A Plan of Marriage

Shortly after his ascent of the throne Ludwig was visited by the Emperor and Empress of Austria. Elizabeth was his cousin. At the time that she went to Vienna as Empress he was only nine years old. She had, later, often visited her parental home and the Bavarian royal family; but on these occasions the shy and retiring Crown Prince had hardly been allowed to see and talk to the beautiful sovereign of the great neighbouring state. Matters were now changed. Now he was King, and there was soon knitted between these two a bond of friendship which lasted until Ludwig’s death. He received the Emperor and Empress with every mark of attention, endeavouring to make their sojourn in his capital as pleasant and gay as possible. From Munich, Franz Josef and his consort went on to Kissingen, where Ludwig paid them a return visit. At this noted resort the young King of Bavaria was received with enthusiasm. Here also he met the Russian royal family. The Empress Maria Alexandrowna met him with motherly kindness, and seems at once to have formed the plan of making him her son-in-law. Bavaria was not, indeed, a great power, but it was a respected kingdom of the second class. The Bavarian dynasty was old and esteemed; and its present head was a brilliant personality, and, as it appeared, noble and amiable in character. To Ludwig also, and the country he represented, a connection of the kind must have presented itself as suitable and desirable; albeit, the Grand Duchess Maria—the only daughter of the Emperor and Empress—was at that time a mere child.

From Kissingen the Russian royal family went on to Schwalbach. After a short stay in Munich the King of Bavaria sought them there, accompanying—their untiring knight—the mother and daughter in their excursions.

This scheme of marriage, entertained by the Russian and the Bavarian courts, extended over several years. It seems to be proved beyond all doubt that Ludwig for a time thought of asking the Grand Duchess’s hand. He even had the plans drawn of a Græco-Muscovite palace, which he intended should be his wedding gift to the bride, and where, as a newly-married couple, they should spend their honeymoon.

The following summer the Tsarina and her daughter came again to Kissingen; there again the King met them. The mutual amiabilities and civilities recommenced, and the Empress and the Bavarian Ministers still seemed eager to have the connection brought about. The announcement of the engagement was expected every day. But it was expected in vain. The King hesitated to say the decisive word; as a matter of fact, he never said it. People tried to guess the reason. Some thought that the Tsarina’s too great eagerness for the match had cooled his own ardour for it. Others thought that the beauty-loving youth had hesitated because he had discovered that the little Russian Princess had a higher heel on one foot than on the other. Hardly any one suspected the real reason. It must be sought in Ludwig’s restless, undecided temperament, and in his inborn aversion to entering the married state.[1]

[1] The Archduchess Maria married some years later the second son of Queen Victoria, Prince Alfred, later Duke of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha. [↑]

CHAPTER V

King Ludwig and Richard Wagner

Richard Wagner, in the preface to his Niebelungenlied, asks the following question:—“Is the prince to be found who will make possible the representation of my work?” Ludwig of Bavaria read these lines as Crown Prince, and exclaimed, with enthusiasm: “When I am a King I will show the world how highly I prize his genius!”

Hardly a month after his accession Ludwig sent his private secretary, Herr von Pfistermeister, to invite Wagner to Munich. The secretary sought Wagner first in Vienna; but the poet-musician had been obliged to flee the Austrian capital for some place where his pursuers could not reach him, having been threatened with arrest for debt. He was traced to some friends in Stuttgart. There the King’s emissary delivered to him a photograph of Ludwig and a ring, set with a ruby, and informed him that, as the stone in the ring glowed, so his ruler burned with longing to behold him.

On his sixteenth birthday the Crown Prince of Bavaria had been present at a representation of Lohengrin. This opera had made the deeper impression on him from the fact that the legend of the swan knights was connected with Hohenschwangau, which, as we know, had been from his childhood his favourite place of residence. During the years preceding his ascent of the throne his interest in the “musician of the future” increased. When visiting his aunt, the Duchess Ludovica, at Possenhofen, he had found Wagner’s compositions on her pianoforte, and from this time forth he studied his works with zeal. Ludwig was not the possessor of any distinctly musical gifts. A musician who gave him lessons on the piano was even of opinion that he was wanting in ear; and Wagner’s works probably attracted him more from their fantastic poetry than on account of their musical qualities.

It was with feelings of joyful expectation that the master accepted the young King’s invitation. He arrived at Munich at the beginning of May (1864), and was received with consideration. His personality made a strong impression on Ludwig, who assured him of his favour and warm interest. “The unthinkable, and the only thing that I required, has become a reality. Heaven has sent me a patron. Through him I live and understand myself!” exclaimed the poet-musician to friends who were awaiting him on his return from the Palace. After staying a few days in the Bavarian capital he continued his journey to Vienna, being now able, thanks to Ludwig’s generosity, to discharge his debts. He soon, however, returned to Munich, and Pfistermeister, in the name of his master, bade him welcome to a beautifully situated villa on the lake of Starnberg, where he might live undisturbed for his art.

Ludwig was in residence at this time at the adjacent Schloss Berg, where Wagner frequently visited him, and performed his works before him. The master’s imagination, poetry, his attractive manner, all transformed the royal enthusiast’s admiration into blind admiration. The elder man exerted a superhuman power over the youth, and his proximity had a positively electrifying effect on the King. Their life together became a decisive event in the lives of both. Full of pity for him, and happy in the consciousness of being able to assist him, Ludwig wrote on the day following their first meeting: “Feel assured that I will do all that lies in my power to make reparation to you for your earlier sufferings. I will for ever chase away the trifling sorrows of everyday life from your head. I will give you the repose you require, so that undisturbed in the pure sphere of your art you can unfold your genius in its entirety.... Unknowingly you were the only source of my joys. From my earliest years you were to me a friend who as no other spoke to my heart, my best teacher and upbringer.” In spite of their difference in age it is placed beyond a doubt, that Wagner from the first moment warmly reciprocated the feelings of his protector. He thus writes to his friend Frau von Wille (May 1864): “He (the King) is unhappily so handsome and so intellectual, so full of soul and so glorious, that I fear his life must disappear like a fleeting dream of gods in this commonplace world. He loves me with the tenderness and warmth of first love. He knows me and all about me, and understands me as he does his own soul. He wishes me to live with him altogether, to work, rest, and have my works performed. He will give me everything I may require for this purpose. I am to complete the “Ring”; and he will have them put on the stage in the manner I desire. I am to be my own master, not Kapelmeister, nothing except myself and his friend!... All need is to be taken away from me, I am to have all that I require, only I am to remain with him!... You cannot imagine the charm of his glance. I only hope he may live; it is a real marvel!” Of their personal intercourse he writes, on another occasion: “I always hasten to him as to a loved one. It is a glorious intercourse ... and, in addition, this kind care of me, this charming modesty of the heart when he assures me of his happiness in possessing me. We often sit for hours lost in the contemplation of one another.” The same feeling of exuberant joy is apparent in a letter written on the 20th of May to his friend Weissheimer: “Only two words to assure you of the indescribable happiness which has become my lot. Everything has happened in such a manner that it is impossible to imagine it more beautiful. Thanks to the affection of the young King, I am for all time insured against every pecuniary care. I can work, I need not trouble myself about anything. No title, no functions, no duties! As soon as I wish anything staged the King places everything I require at my disposal.... My young King is a wonderful dispensation of fate to me. We love one another as only master and pupil can love one another. He is happy in having me and I am happy on account of him.... And then he is so beautiful, so profound, that daily intercourse with him carries me away, and gives me an entirely new life.”

Already at this time, however, he adds: “You can imagine what a vast amount of envy I meet with!”

The same year he addresses Ludwig:[1]

“O, König! Holder Schirmherr meines Lebens!

Du, höchster Güte wonnereicher Hort!

Was Du mir bist, kann staunend ich nur fassen,

Wenn mir sich zeigt, was ohne Dich ich war.

Du bist der holde Lenz, der neu mich schmückte,

Der mir verjüngt der Zweig und Aeste Saft;

Es war dein Ruf, der mich der Nacht entrückte,

Die winterlich erstarrt hielt meine Kraft.

Wie mich Dein hehrer Segengruss entzückte,

Der wonnenstürmisch mich dem Leid entrafft,

So wandl’ ich stolzbeglückt nun neue Pfade

Im sommerlichen Königreich der Gnade.”

At the beginning of October, Wagner moved from the lake of Starnberg to Munich, Ludwig having given him a furnished villa in Brienner Strasse. The royal gardeners transformed an adjoining garden into a pretty park, and he was granted a considerable monthly pension. The intercourse between the friends continued apparently undisturbed; they spent their days in each other’s society, and often remained together half the night. The Monarch showered gifts on the poet-musician, and fulfilled all his wishes.

On the 25th of November the newspapers of the capital published an official announcement, which ran as follows:—“His Majesty has decided that a school of operatic music shall be founded, under the direction of Wagner, in which male and female singers who wish to prepare themselves for the stage may receive the necessary practical instruction. The royal Residenz Theater will be placed at the disposal of the pupils for purposes of rehearsal.”

Der Fliegende Holländer was given at the Hof Theater on the 4th of December. The house was filled to overflowing, and the audience followed the opera with interest. Wagner, who made his first public appearance that evening as conductor in Munich, was recalled after the second act and the conclusion of the performance. In order further to seal the position he had won, it was decided that he should give a concert the following Sunday in the Hof Theater, where several of his compositions would be performed. It was, however, badly attended; and the critics deemed Wagner more a poet than a musician.

A few weeks afterwards the King received in special audience the architect Semper, who had come to Munich at the suggestion of Wagner, it being the latter’s wish that a large new theatre after his own notions should be built in the Bavarian capital. It was intended that this edifice should be situated on the highest part of the Maximilian Anlage, a bridge in Renaissance style being thrown across the river. The cost of the theatre was estimated at a million guldens, and including the projected bridge and laying out of the adjacent ground, Semper further calculated the sum necessary at five millions of guldens. His plans and drawings met with Ludwig’s fullest approval. The officials of the privy purse, however, used to the economy of former reigns, strongly opposed the scheme. The King, therefore, thought himself constrained to postpone indefinitely the execution of his plans; and later on entirely abandoned them.[2] The capital of Bavaria was the loser by this, for the theatre would not only have been an embellishment to the town, but would have attracted thither a countless number of visitors. The outlay in course of time would have been covered many times over.

The real opposition against Wagner began in Munich on the day when his extensive theatre plans became known. The nobility saw in him the bad genius of the young King, one who would prevent the aristocracy and gentry from having access to the presence. The clergy were incensed against him because he was a freethinker. Among musicians there was a considerable number who admired the composer of Der Fliegende Holländer, Lohengrin, and Tännhauser, but who, nevertheless, frankly opposed the “music of the future” as an aberration. Others of his fellows looked upon him as the greatest musical genius of that day; but they envied his ability to bask in the favour of royalty, and dragged his personal weaknesses forth before the public.

Wagner, on his side, was not without blame in these enmities. The exaggerated luxury displayed by him incensed the thrifty burghers. At every turn he boasted of the royal favour. It was generally said that he misused his protector’s open purse. He was in the habit of buying articles on credit and referring the purveyors for payment to his “royal friend,” and it was feared in extended circles that he was leading Ludwig into profligacy. He, moreover, caused a considerable amount of ill-feeling by his irritability and impatience where the execution of his plans was concerned. A large part of the press began to show hostility towards him; the comic papers occupied themselves with him; and he suffered much under the forging of these links: On the 7th of March 1865 he wrote to August Röckl: “All I want is to get away to a pretty corner of Italy ... so as to be able to nurse my poor nerves. But how, on the other hand, can I leave this poor young King, in his abominable surroundings, and with his heart so wonderfully fastened on me?”

At Wagner’s suggestion the King summoned Hans von Bülow and several of the musician’s other adherents to Munich. Bülow was appointed court choirmaster and “leader” to his Majesty. He treated the artists of the royal chapel like schoolboys. They were received in the best society of the capital, and their displeasure was implanted further. On the 7th of May 1865 the following announcement appeared in the Neuesten Nachrichten:—“Men whose veracity we have no reason to doubt inform us that at a recent rehearsal of Wagner’s Tristan und Isolde Herr von Bülow demanded an extension of the orchestra. The stage manager, Herr Penckmayer, answered that in such a case thirty stalls would have to be done away with. Bülow thereupon observed: ‘What does it matter if there are thirty rascals more or less in the theatre!’” The overstrung musician frequently let his sharp tongue run away with him, and could not deny that he had made use of this expression. He found himself obliged to declare publicly that in saying so he had in his mind only that portion of the public who had taken up a hostile attitude towards Wagner. The general dislike of Hans von Bülow, despite his admitted ability, was very detrimental to the poet-composer; moreover, others of his friends who had come to Munich at this time wounded the inhabitants of the city by their frankly expressed contempt for its music, and by permitting themselves criticisms at its expense. But more than anything else public opinion was incensed against Wagner from the fact that Frau Cosima von Bülow, née Liszt, had attained the part of lady of the house at the villa in Brienner Strasse.

It became known that the mutual admiration between her and Wagner had taken the form of a liaison, and the judges of morality on this ground sided vehemently against him. Only at the court did his position appear to be unshaken. Ludwig did not hear the reports which were current with regard to Bülow’s wife and his friend, nor had he more than a slight knowledge of the hostility of which the latter was the object. Articles in the different newspapers which had come to his knowledge had, however, greatly embittered the sensitive youth. “Forgive them, for they know not what they do,” he wrote, with reference to this, to Wagner. “They do not know that you are everything to me, and will continue to be so until death.” In another letter he exclaims: “Ah, my friend, how difficult they make things for us! But I will not complain. I have him, my friend, the only one.”[3]

At the Hof Theater in Munich the master’s glorious composition Tristan und Isolde was being studied, no theatre up to this time having attempted to produce it. The well-known singers Ludwig and Malwina Schnorr von Carolsfeld came from Dresden to take the title parts. Bülow, whom the composer called “his other self,”[4] was to conduct the opera. The rehearsals began in Wagner’s house, but were later transferred to the royal Residenz Theater which was placed at his absolute disposal for this purpose. The master instructed each one of the artists himself. The little man with the great head was all fire, carrying everyone with him. When a difficult passage had been performed with especial success he would spring up and kiss and embrace the singer, male or female; and at times even stand on his head on the sofa from sheer delight.[5]

The performances of Tristan und Isolde had been fixed for the 15th, the 18th, and the 22nd of May, the latter day being Wagner’s birthday. His followers, and representatives of the press, had come from all parts of Germany and from abroad, to be present at the representation, which was considered an event in the musical world. But Frau Schnorr von Carolsfeld suddenly fell ill, and the performance had to be postponed.

It was not until the 10th of June that the first performance could take place. Early in the forenoon all the seats in the house were sold at considerably increased prices. The royal boxes, flanking the stage, were filled with spectators: among those present being Prince Luitpold with his elder sons, Prince Adalbert with his wife, King Ludwig I., and Duke Max, who nearly all remained in the theatre until the conclusion of the opera.

At ten minutes past six the King appeared in the so-called “Imperial box.” He was received with loud acclamations, and the orchestra added its quota of fanfares. Ludwig was evidently pleased, and thanked his people by bowing cordially to all sides. The next moment Hans von Bülow stepped into the conductor’s place, and the performance began.

It was not at that time usual to applaud the actors and actresses when the Sovereign was present, until the latter had given the signal. After the first act, however, a great number of those present were so delighted that they could not refrain from recalling Herr and Frau Schnorr von Carolsfeld. No sooner had they done this than hisses were to be heard, though deadened by applause. After the second act the two chief singers were recalled, this time amid unanimous recognition. At eleven o’clock the performance concluded. Once again there was a difference of opinion, and applause and hisses sought for mastery. Herr and Frau Schnorr von Carolsfeld led Wagner on to the stage. He was received with a storm of ovations, though here and there hisses were audible. The King, who had followed the performance with the most strained attention, and who in the third act had been affected to tears, trembled with emotion. He stood up in his box, and clapped enthusiastically.

At last there was quiet; the curtain fell. Wagner’s genius had conquered.

There was not in the whole of Europe a newspaper of any consideration, still less one for the criticism of music, which did not mention this evening. Opinions as to the work were divided, but there was only one opinion as to the excellence of the orchestra under Hans von Bülow’s leadership and the singing of Ludwig and Malwina Schnorr von Carolsfeld. A Frenchman who was present wrote[6]: “I doubt that Wagner’s Tristan will ever be popular, for it is not remarkable for clearness and simplicity. On the other hand, musicians will find treasures in it.—I have never been present at an opera which so quickly wearies the attention and which demands such an immense amount of mental strain. But neither do I know any with such lofty and enchanting beauties.

“We must do the young King the justice to allow that without him the representation could never have been possible. He has worked for it with all his might, and Wagner’s triumph is in truth his. Ludwig’s behaviour during the five hours that the opera lasted was likewise a feature in the play. Be sure that this young man will cause the world to talk about him! A Monarch of twenty years more open-minded than his Opposition, whom he drives forward—a King who does not draw back before the highest problems in art is a rare figure in history!”

Wagner received from his royal protector a letter in which was written:

“Uplifted, Divine Friend,

“I can hardly wait for the morrow, I long so already for the second performance.... Is it not so, my very dear friend, the courage to create new things will never leave you!... I ask you never to lose heart. I ask it of you in the name of those whom you fill with joy—a joy which otherwise only God grants!

“You and God!

“To death and after death. In the kingdom on the other side I remain,

“Your faithful,
“Ludwig.”

To Hans von Bülow likewise he expressed his thanks in a flattering letter, which was accompanied by a diamond ring; and he also caused diamond rings to be conveyed to Herr and Frau Schnorr von Carolsfeld, in which souvenirs of the festival were ingeniously set.

[1] In a dedication of the pianoforte score of Die Walküre (July 1864). [↑]

[2] Semper some years afterwards made use of the same plan, though somewhat reduced in scale, when he built the Richard Wagner Theatre in Bayreuth. [↑]

[3] Ludwig II. and Richard Wagner continually exchanged letters. They are written in an exceedingly warm and exalted tone, but turn chiefly on musical subjects. Only a very small number of them are accessible to the public. After the death of the King the Bavarian Government and Wagner’s heirs agreed that Ludwig’s letters should be given up to the Bavarian Government, which now preserves them under lock and key. Wagner’s letters, on the other hand, were sent back to his relations.

The periodical, Die Wage, published in its second year several interesting letters from Ludwig to his friend which are affirmed to be absolutely authentic, and which I have cited in part as above. [↑]

[4] In a letter, dated 5th May, to Herr Uhl, the editor of the Wiener Botschafter. [↑]

[5] Frau Herwegh in the Gegenwart, 1897. [↑]

[6] In the Progrès de Lyon. [↑]

CHAPTER VI

Ludwig’s First Visit to Switzerland—Richard Wagner leaves Munich

We know that Schiller, from Ludwig’s childhood, had been his favourite poet. At Munich, as in all other theatres, the master’s works had hitherto only been given in an abridged form. But the “romanticist on the throne,” commanded that in his own theatre they should be played as the poet himself had intended. On the 18th of October 1865 Wilhelm Tell was performed for the first time in its original shape.

After this representation the King was taken with the desire to know the people and the country which Schiller had glorified in his work. Accompanied by his aide-de-camp, Prince Paul of Thurn and Taxis, he started on the 20th of October for Switzerland. In Lucerne, which he made his headquarters, he went to the hotel Schweizer Hof. His arrival being unannounced, and no one recognising him, he was given a room on the third floor. The consternation among the personnel of the establishment may be imagined when it became known the following day that it was the King of Bavaria who had been lodged so high up. The landlord, in dismay, hastened upstairs to make his apologies, and offered Ludwig the suite of rooms on the ground floor in which royal personages were usually accommodated. Ludwig declined the offer with his kindest smile, declaring that he was satisfied with his little room on the third floor, with its pretty view over the lake and mountains, and that he would not leave it.

From Lucerne he made excursions to places in the woodland cantons rich in legendary lore: to “Rütli” “Tells-Platte,” “Stauffachers Kapel,” to the Küsnach gorge, and several other places.

The hearts of the inhabitants went out to the handsome, enthusiastic youth. The Schwyzer Zeitung published after his departure some hearty words of appreciation and farewell. This he answered in an autograph letter which ran as follows:—

“Herr Redakteur!

“It was with the greatest pleasure that I read to-day the warm farewell from “William Tell’s” land, and I answer it from my heart.

“I send my greeting likewise to my dear friends in the forest cantons, for whom already as a child I had a particular affection.

“The recollection of my visit to the glorious interior of Switzerland and of the honest, free people, whom I pray God to protect, I shall always prize.

“With the kindest feelings, I am,

“Your gracious,
“Ludwig.

“Hohenschwangau, November the second, 1865.”

On his return home Ludwig invited Richard Wagner to visit him; and on the 10th of November the two friends were again together in the “Swan Castle.” It was intended to open at the beginning of the year 1866 the new school of music and dramatic art, with Hans von Bülow as Principal. Wagner had much upon his mind which he desired to ask of his royal friend, and was so satisfied with his stay at Hohenschwangau that after his return home he telegraphed to one of his adherents:

“The year 1866 is ours!”

Meanwhile there were forces working from different quarters to destroy the friendship between him and Ludwig. The Secretary and the Keeper of the Privy Purse, who had enjoyed the late King’s confidence for years, considered it to be their duty to counteract the tendency to extravagance which was showing itself in the young Sovereign. They received support from the numerous opponents of the poet-musician. The opposition grew into a perfect tumult; for the people, who could neither understand his relations with Ludwig nor his artistic objects, believed in the alarming pictures of him which his enemies sowed broadcast in words and writings. “Well-informed persons,” wrote the Volksbote, “affirm that Wagner within less than a year has cost the privy purse no less than a million and nine hundred thousand guldens. We do not vouch for the accuracy of the amount stated; but we may mention it as certain that Wagner some weeks ago once more demanded forty thousand guldens in order to satisfy his expensive habits. Herr von Pfistermeister has advised the Sovereign not to grant this new and excessive demand. As a result of this Richard Wagner has written in his anger a letter very far from polite to Herr von Pfistermeister; and finally he has in spite of everything received the sum he desired.” Ministers, Councillors of State, burgher representatives, all took part against him. Among the general public opinions were, however, somewhat divided. The following episode occurred in a railway train. A Catholic priest expressed disapproval of his Majesty for making so much of “Lutheran musicians.” To this a peasant who was sitting in the same carriage, replied: “I would rather see the King with musicians than with priests.”

The Secretary was looked upon by Wagner as the instigator of all the opposition the latter met with, and on many occasions he expressed himself in disparaging terms of this greatly respected man. In the other camp, on the contrary, Pfistermeister was greatly admired on account of the bold stand he was making against the inconsiderate demands of the master, the Conservative papers siding strongly with him.

On the 4th of December an address of confidence was laid out in the business houses of Munich for signature, which it was intended should be presented to Herr von Pfistermeister by a deputation. It also contained a request that he would continue to stand fast by the King’s side. Ludwig received official information of these facts, and at the same time it was made known to him how unpopular Wagner had made himself. On the 5th of December he moved from Hohenschwangau back to the Royal Palace at Munich. On the same day his mother, his great-uncle Prince Karl, Archbishop Scherr, and the Premier, Baron von der Pfordten, went to the Palace. In his capacity as Minister of the Royal Household, the latter handed him a memorandum in which he threatened to retire if Wagner did not leave Bavaria. Prince Karl gave forcible expression to the belief of the court that this friendship would have disastrous consequences. The police would no longer answer for the poet-composer’s safety. Lacqueys who were questioned let fall hints that a revolution might break out under the present condition of affairs.

The King had weak nerves, and was not a man of conspicuous bravery. Wagner’s violence and exactions had many times caused him difficulties. He felt himself, moreover, greatly hurt by the manner in which his name had been mixed up in the matter. The attacks of the press and the threats of his relations and councillors would hardly, however, have been sufficient to separate him from his friend, had not another reason been added to them: he had received incontrovertible proof that the poet-composer had a liaison with Frau Cosima von Bülow. These proofs, for which he was quite unprepared, made a far more painful impression on him than the meddling of his friends and the malicious fulminations of the press.

Schwärmerei was a prominent trait in his character, and he had fixed all his affections on Richard Wagner. The predominant feeling of the latter was primarily gratitude to his royal patron; but there is no doubt, judging by the letters and poems from his hand, that he also cherished very great sympathy for the gifted youth. But Ludwig was of a jealous nature. He wished to be loved for his own sake; and he wished to possess his friend alone. The connection with Frau von Bülow, therefore, became a source of bitter and continual disappointment to him. The same day that he ascertained the fact with certainty, he sent the Premier a document in which he made known his desire that Wagner should at once leave Munich. “I will,” he said on this occasion, “show my dear people that their confidence in, and love for, me stands higher than any other consideration.” To von Lutz, later his Minister, was allotted the task of verbally informing Wagner of the decision which had been taken with regard to him. The same evening he visited the Hof Theater with the Queen-mother. Instead of the warm welcome he was in the habit of receiving when he had been absent for some time, a murmur of displeasure was heard. He thought to see in this a confirmation of the current of public feeling. The following morning he sent Wagner an autograph letter, which ran as follows:—

“My dear Friend,

“Greatly as it pains me, I must ask you to comply with the wish I expressed yesterday through my secretary. Believe me, I was obliged to act thus! My affection for you will last for ever. I ask you, also, always to keep your friendship for me. It is with a good conscience that I dare say that I am worthy of it.... Who has the right to part us?... I know that you feel as I do, that you can perfectly measure my deep sorrow. I could not act otherwise, be convinced of this! Never doubt the faithfulness of your greatest friend.... It is not for ever.

“To death,

“Your faithful,

“Ludwig.”

Even before the official organ of the Government had announced this sensational banishment, the news had been disseminated with lightning rapidity. The 8th of December was a holiday. Nevertheless, a meeting of magistrates was convened to discuss the propriety of sending a deputation to the King, to express the city’s thanks. The debate was protracted and sharp; it was finally agreed that the deputation should not be sent. Nor did a torchlight procession which had been thought of, take place.

While the Clerical and some of the Liberal papers were overjoyed at Ludwig’s action, the Progressive organ observed that “the august relatives, members of the nobility, and officials of Church and State who had informed the King of the prevailing condition of public feeling had been incorrect in their statements. Wagner’s presence had done nothing to alarm the people, and had in no way diminished their love of the King. Wagner’s person had had nothing whatever to do with the internal affairs of the country, and with the efforts of the Progressive party.”

On the 10th of December the master left Munich. Despite the cold of winter and the dark early morning hour, the railway station was filled with people anxious to see him and bid him good-bye. Ludwig had sent him a last farewell letter, brimming over with sorrow:

“My precious tenderly loved Friend,

“Words cannot express the pain gnawing at my heart. Whatever it is possible to do to refute the abominable newspaper accounts shall be done. That it should have come to this! Our ideals shall be faithfully cultivated—I need hardly tell you this. Let us write often and much to one another. I ask it of you! We know each other, and we will not give up the friendship which binds us. For the sake of your peace I had to act as I have done.

“Do not misjudge me, not for a moment; it would be the pangs of hell to me.... Success to my most beloved friend! May his works flourish. A hearty greeting with my whole soul from

“Your faithful,

“Ludwig.”

Wagner went to Switzerland and took up his abode there.

Neither the King nor his advisers thought that the banishment would be for ever. The poet-musician did, indeed, return to Munich, on visits of short duration, but he never stayed there again for any length of time. The good relations between him and Ludwig were never broken, and the gallant Monarch continued to hold his protecting hand over him. He worked zealously for the inauguration of the Wagner Theatre at Bayreuth, and the royal pension was paid without reduction out of the privy purse until the death of Wagner in 1883. Frau Cosima, however, who had been one of the causes of the friends’ separation, was unable to congratulate herself on any favour whatsoever; she might not have existed as far as the ruler of Bavaria was concerned. As a widow she sought an audience of him, to thank him for the proofs of affection he had shown her husband. Ludwig refused to receive her. “I do not know any Frau Cosima Wagner,” he said coldly.

Although he had voluntarily sent the master away, and although, as we have seen, other reasons than the voice of opinion had influenced his decision, Ludwig never forgave the citizens of Munich for the part they had taken in disturbing a friendship which had been the source to him of so much consolation and pleasure. The aversion which he showed the capital on many later occasions was first awakened by this circumstance. The severance not only left behind it a profound feeling of loneliness, but also, in his sensitive heart, a bitterness which boded ill for the future.

“His too great love for me,” wrote Wagner, on the 26th of December 1865, to Frau Wille, “made him blind to other connections, and therefore he was easily disappointed. He knows nobody, and it is only now that he is learning to know people. Still I hope for him. As I am sure of his enduring affection, so I believe in the development of his splendid qualities. All he requires is to learn to know a few more people. He will then rapidly learn to do the right thing.”

On the 1st of July 1867 he wrote in a letter to Malvida von Meysenburg:

“The only thing that kept me back in Munich was affection for my friend, for whose sake I have suffered more than for any other person.... I have saved him, and still hope that I have kept in him one of my best works for the world.”

Among Wagner’s contemporaries there were but few who were disposed to share his belief that he had saved the young King. On the contrary, public opinion affirmed that it was he who had given Ludwig a taste for the nocturnal life which entirely undermined his nervous system, and that by his exaggerated poems of homage he had laid the foundation of the megalomania which later developed in him. At the time of Ludwig’s death it was even declared that this friend was concerned in the tragedy of the Starnberger See. The latter is, of course, an unproved and improvable affirmation. With quite as much reason might it be said that Ludwig II.—morbid as he was—had need of some person who by the power of music could soothe him in his suffering condition. Certain it is that from the day when the separation from Richard Wagner took place the King’s spirit became less, and his life more joyless than it had been before.

It has also been thought that Wagner meddled in the guidance of political affairs. This, however, is incorrect. There were, indeed, many who credited him with an all-powerful influence over the King, and he himself mentions this in a letter to a friend: “I pass for a favourite who can bring everything about. The other day even a murderess’s relations addressed themselves to me!” It is also said that, at the time when war seemed to be imminent between Prussia and Austria, an endeavour was made through Wagner to induce Ludwig to remain neutral. All, however, who are in a position to know, are agreed that in the fulfilment of his duties as a ruler the young Monarch never allowed himself to be influenced by him. Wagner has on countless occasions declared that he never talked politics with the King, because the latter had forbidden him to do so. When he touched upon a topic which might in any way have led the conversation into this channel, Ludwig would gaze up at the ceiling and whistle, as a sign that he did not desire a continuation of the subject.

Finally, in summing up the relations between the two friends, it must not be forgotten that, after Wagner’s genius, it is to the affection of the Bavarian King for him that the world owes to-day the possession of the Meistersinger, Der Ring, and Parsifal. His help at a time when it was most needed, gave back to the master his strength and courage. Ludwig’s magnificent generosity enabled him to create these new and glorious works. Moreover, the royal protection did much further to attract attention to Wagner and to the music of the future. His enthusiastic admiration for the composer of Rienzi, Der Fliegende Holländer, Tannhäuser, Lohengrin, Tristan und Isolde, and the above-mentioned operas, has caused the name of Ludwig II. to be honourably connected with the history of music.

Little more than twenty years have passed since his death, in the year 1886. But the prophetic words which he uttered on the 4th of August 1865, in a letter to Richard Wagner, have become reality. “When we two are no more, our work will serve as a shining model for posterity. It will delight centuries. And hearts will glow with enthusiasm for the art which is from God, and is everlasting.”

CHAPTER VII

The Political Situation—The Schleswig-Holstein Question—The War of 1866

The sixties were in political respects a time fraught with fate for the German people.

The future Emperor Wilhelm I.—“der Siegeskaiser,” as he was called—had in 1861 succeeded his romantic, and in the end, insane brother, Friedrich Wilhelm IV., as King of Prussia. The year afterwards Bismarck was constituted the leader of Prussian politics. He had long borne within him the scheme for the federation of the German states under the Prussian sceptre; and his political watch-word was, as we know, “iron and blood.” In 1863 an opportunity occurred for the great statesman to take the first step on his projected way. The Danish King, Frederik VII., had died, and as a consequence of this the Schleswig-Holstein question had peremptorily come to the fore. Bismarck invited the hereditary enemy, Austria, to go hand in hand with Prussia in her war against Denmark. In the situation brought about by this war the position of the medium-sized and small states of Germany became serious, and the neutrality which they had adopted became more and more untenable. Bavaria had kept outside the struggle in the Schleswig-Holstein question. Its then reigning Monarch, Maximilian II., had made an attempt to negotiate between the conflicting parties, and shortly before his death endeavoured to mediate in favour of the Duke of Agustenborg’s claims.

Matters had by this time entered on a new stage: the two great powers could not agree as to the prize gained by the conquest. Dark storm-clouds gathered, threatening a more far-reaching and bloody issue than the Schleswig-Holstein one. Ludwig II. desired to take up the thankless part of peacemaker, and follow in his father’s footsteps. This was of no avail, for Bismarck wished for a decision of the question whether Prussia or Austria should play first violin, and a war was a necessary link in his scheme. Bavaria in general, and the King in particular, seem long to have considered it possible that the storm might abate without the shedding of blood. Nevertheless he issued orders on the 10th of May, 1866, for the mobilisation of the Bavarian army.

On the 22nd of May, at Schloss Hohenschwangau, one of the Ministers held a lecture before him on the position of affairs. Ludwig went a turn in the park with his counsellor, and parted from him with manifestations of friendliness, after having offered him a cigar. The Minister had hardly taken his departure before Ludwig mounted a horse, and rode off, accompanied by a single groom. He galloped to the railway station of Biessenhofen, reached Lindau unrecognised, and passed thence unnoticed into Switzerland. The journey concerned Richard Wagner, who was living at his villa “Triebchen,” close to Lucerne, and whom he wished to congratulate on the occasion of his birthday. The Landsturm was meanwhile about to be called out in Bavaria, and the King’s signature was required. Not a syllable as to his intended excursion had crossed his lips while he had been talking to the Minister. When the latter again returned to Hohenschwangau, his Majesty had disappeared. Inquiries were made; but no one knew whither he had ridden, or how long he intended to be away. After a time tracks were found leading to the lake of Lucerne, and it was discovered that two riders, late at night, had been admitted to Richard Wagner’s villa. There was no longer any doubt as to where he was to be sought. The Premier telegraphed to Wagner that the King’s presence in Bavaria was necessary. Ludwig at once went back to Lindau, whither the royal train was sent to meet him. It is true that he had been absent only a few days, but not without reason this excursion was looked upon with great disfavour. His gratuitous disappearance at such a critical moment was commented on and criticised in foreign and Bavarian newspapers. The only circumstance to explain and excuse his conduct was his youthful confidence that his kingdom would not be involved in the struggle.

On the 27th of May he opened the Chamber in person, expressing in the Speech from the Throne the hope, which he would not yet relinquish, that Germany might be spared a sister war. This was, however, on the eve of breaking out.

The sympathies of Bavaria were on the side of Austria, and on the 14th of June a military alliance was concluded with that country. The same day Prussia declared in Dresden, Hanover, and Cassel its ultimatum: Alliance or war! The Grand Duke of Hesse, who would not allow Prussia “to put a pistol to his breast,” was a Prussian prisoner of state five days later. King George of Hanover declared himself, “as a Christian, a monarch, and a Guelph,” to be against Prussia. But so rapid was the Prussian advance that the Hanoverian troops surrendered without conditions on the 29th of June, in spite of their victory at Langensalza.

On the 16th of June the war broke out in Bavaria. Austria had undertaken, in an agreement with this country, not to conclude peace on her own account. On the 25th of June Ludwig went for a day to the headquarters of the army, at Bamberg. He issued a proclamation to his troops, in which he said, “I do not bid you farewell; my thoughts will be with you,”

He left the command of the army to his father’s uncle, Field Marshal Prince Karl, then seventy-one years of age, who, together with Prince Alexander of Hesse, led the troops of Bavaria, Würtemberg, Baden-Baden, and Hesse—the so-called reichs-armée, which consisted of nearly a hundred thousand men. In spite of his bravery and his military experience from the wars of Napoleon the Great, in which he had taken part, Prince Karl could do nothing against the dissensions of the allied troops, which hastened the enemy’s victory. The Prussians conquered the reichs-armée in a number of small battles.

Inactive, powerless, Ludwig was witness from his capital of the defeat of his faithful soldiers. His people were a vanquished people, and himself a vanquished King. Austria concluded peace with Prussia in Nikolsburg without paying any regard to the fate of her ally. Bavaria now also concluded peace. She did not lose any province, had only to renounce a strip of country hardly worth mentioning; but she was compelled to pay thirty millions of guldens for the expenses of the war. The Bavarian troops went each in their own direction. The war had lasted a month, but this month had been long enough to lay fields and woods bare, and to fill thousands of hearts with loss and sorrow.

CHAPTER VIII

The King makes the Tour of his Kingdom

A couple of months after peace had been concluded Ludwig made the tour of his kingdom—the first and the last of his reign.

He appeared with great brilliance, his suite consisting of no less than a hundred and nineteen persons. Although the war had brought Bavaria neither honour nor advantage, and although the King had taken no active part in it, he was everywhere received with the greatest rejoicings. The enthusiasm he aroused was so great, that his journey literally resembled a triumphal progress, and this conquered and peaceful monarch might have taken to himself Cæsar’s celebrated words: Veni, vidi, vici.

The sympathy of the people during the war of 1866 had been markedly on the side upon which the Government had placed itself, namely, that of Austria. The young King’s personality was, moreover, as if created to awaken interest and devotion. He was twenty-one years of age. He united to his youth a beauty which was widely celebrated. Nearly every illustrated paper in Germany, nay, the whole of Europe, published a picture of him at that time, and to these was added a text redundant with admiration and praise. The romantic light which rested on him, the legends current as to his gifts and his intellect, his æsthetic and artistic tastes, even the many half-true half-fictitious stories of his caprices and peculiarities—all contributed to increase the interest taken in him. Added to this was the fact that this official journey was for the purpose of making acquaintance with the wounds caused by the war, and in order, as far as possible, to bring healing and relief to them.

It was a winter journey. The snow lay like a white coverlet over the afflicted provinces traversed by the railway. But from behind the wide plate-glass windows Ludwig saw, whenever a group of houses came into sight, that a flag was hoisted on every roof and that from every window a hearty welcome was being waved to him. The noise of the train was put to naught by the jubilant clangour of the village trumpets and clarionets. In the towns the reception was on a grander scale, and not less hearty. All the streets were decorated with flags and banners, and all the bells were pealing. The sounds of cannon, music, and cries of hurrah mingled one with another. The Monarch was the recipient of loyal speeches, verses, state dinners, and parades of troops. Concerts and balls were given in his honour. Young girls with awed admiration presented him with nosegays. The poor and the rich, the young and the old, gave proof-positive of their devotion by the zeal and impatience with which they sought to approach him. The joy of the people broke through police-guards and etiquette. Everyone asked to welcome this conquered man who was making a triumphal progress though the conquered provinces. “Never,” a Bavarian officer who was with him told me—“never was a King worshipped as was Ludwig on his tour in his own country.” The jubilations were equally deafening, the heartiness just as spontaneous, in Bayreuth, in Bamberg, Hof, Schweinfurt, Kissingen, Aschaffenburg, Würzburg, and Nuremberg.

The snowstorms now and then reduced a plan to nothing; Ludwig’s health sometimes failed and prevented him from enjoying the festivities as much as he might have done; he was unable now and then to appear at some entertainment which had been given in his honour. But he was never-failing in his amiability, and he visited all the places where there had been battles with the enemy, laying flowers with his own hand on the soldiers’ graves, and rewarding those who had helped to nurse the wounded.

On the 30th of November he arrived in the most glorious winter weather at Nuremberg, welcomed by crowds of people and shouts of “Long live the King!”

In the evening the citizens gave a brilliant ball; it was so numerously attended that it was only with difficulty space could be kept for the dancers. Nevertheless, Ludwig danced for four hours running. He conversed with ladies of all ages, and with men of the most varying grades of society. He was pushed into the very midst of the crowd, and he laughed and joked at the incident. It was not till long after midnight that he withdrew from the ball. He remained a whole week in Nuremberg. The castle courtyard, and the neighbouring castle hill, were besieged by people from morning to night, who could not look often enough on their King. From the adjacent country places people came in troops to the town; and every day he gave audience in the hall of the Kaiserburg.

Throughout the journey magnificent gifts of money poured out of the privy purse for the assuaging of poverty and need. Criminals were pardoned, and the countless petitions which were sent in were nearly all granted. The police endeavoured to keep the obtrusive supplicants away. But the Monarch had a sharp eye for that which it was desired to keep from him. He discovered for himself among the crowds of people the pale and careworn forms who hung together with petitions in their hands, and he would then send one of his equerries to find out the nature of their wishes. Wearing a field-marshal’s uniform he held a review of the troops on the Ludwigsmark, and sewed with his own hand the war memorial on four standards. The general in command made a speech in his honour, after which the troops broke out into vociferous cheering.

In response to a special invitation Prince Otto joined him at Nuremberg; the interest of the inhabitants from this moment was divided between the two brothers. Otto also was genial with all with whom he came in contact. He was handsome; and he was the possessor of a gay and lively temperament, in which his brother was wanting.

At last the end came of the royal days in Nuremberg. On the afternoon of the 10th of December the King, accompanied by his brother, left the town. He promised soon to repeat the visit—a promise which was never fulfilled! Despite the demonstrations of love and devotion which were so often and so unstintingly lavished on him by the population, he never again during his reign of twenty-two years travelled in his kingdom.

CHAPTER IX

Ludwig’s Betrothal

At a court ball which took place during one of the first years of Ludwig’s reign, he said to one of his gentlemen-in-waiting: “There are many pretty women at my court, are there not?” and added, as his glance full of tenderness sought the Queen-mother, “but my mother is the prettiest of them, and the one whom I admire most.”

Queen Marie had many good qualities, but though her sons both loved her, she had no lasting influence on them. She hardly took the trouble to try to enter into Ludwig’s train of thought, or to hide his weaknesses and peculiarities from others, nor does she seem to have had the ability to understand his strange and composite nature.

As we are aware, the young King took great interest in art and literature. At the beginning of his reign he endeavoured to influence the Queen’s taste; but when he talked to her about books, inquired her opinion of this or that work, she would usually answer: “I never read anything!—I cannot understand why people should always want to be reading.” Ludwig regarded her want of understanding as an indirect reproach to himself; and his disappointment in her had a depressing effect upon him. Both mother and son were fond of a country life. Both had a particular affection for Hohenschwangau. The Queen-mother had spent her happy married life at this place: the King’s best childish memories were connected with the castle. But even this similarity of taste gave rise to disagreements. Whereas Ludwig infinitely preferred to be alone at Hohenschwangau, the Queen-mother preferred to collect people around her. While her thrifty mind was able to content itself with a bunch of Alpine roses, picked by herself, the King required gardens and parks, created by art. Life within the family circle, however, went on in very much the same manner as in the lifetime of her husband: Queen Marie retained her housewifely habits, and the King and Prince Otto shared her life at the royal summer residences in the vicinity of the capital.

King Maximilian had built a Swiss châlet, “Pleckenau,” some little distance above the Marienbrücke, and about five miles from Hohenschwangau. During the first years of her widowhood Queen Marie regularly used this house as a resting-place on her trips in the neighbourhood, and as an object for small excursions. Ludwig and Otto, with their attendants, would come out and spend quiet evenings with her. The King’s nineteenth birthday was celebrated at Pleckenau. A meal was partaken of in the garden, and the utmost gaiety prevailed. “All the same,” said the Queen, “something is wanting to increase the pleasure of the day.” She looked inquiringly round the circle to see if no one guessed her thoughts. As she nodded at the same time to Ludwig, he said:

“You mean music, mamma! We will have some later!”

“I mean something else,” answered his mother, “something that we want particularly to-day!”

Prince Otto, then sixteen years old, suddenly called out:

“I know, mamma!”

“What is it, then?”

“Your spinning-wheel!”

Those present were vastly entertained at the Prince’s answer, for the Queen-mother’s weakness for practical occupations was the object of much amusement. This time, however, her thoughts had carried her in another direction. She confided to the circle that she had been thinking of a fiancée for the King.

Despite Ludwig’s youth, not only his mother, but also his people had begun to occupy themselves with the emotional side of his nature. His love of the mountains and their solitude had caused a rumour to become current that a postmaster’s or ranger’s daughter in Schliersee had taken possession of his heart. This report was entirely without foundation. Apart from his mother and her court ladies, his old nurse and his governess, he had before his accession hardly come in contact with women. As the young King he was amiable and courteous, but exceedingly retiring in his behaviour towards them. It was perhaps for the very reason of this retiring attitude that he set flame to a countless number of hearts. Many ladies wore lockets containing some souvenir of him; such, for instance, as a flower his foot had trodden on, or some of the hairs of his riding-horse.[1]

Some years passed by after the above-mentioned birthday party took place, and still the wish of the Queen-mother and the people was ungratified. The Empress of Russia’s matrimonial project had become known, had been much discussed, and had again been nearly forgotten. The King was now twenty-two years of age.

The world was at this juncture surprised by the announcement that he was engaged to be married to his cousin, the Duchess Sophie Charlotte. She was young, pretty, well-educated, very musical, and the possessor of a fine voice. In defiance of the feeling against him which prevailed at court, she had openly shown her admiration for Richard Wagner, and was usually present at the Hof Theater when his works were performed. Ludwig looked forward to finding in her an ally in the struggle for his friend. Although the cousins were on a friendly footing, their mutual relations had never given any ground to suppose that a matrimonial alliance between them would ever come about. The evening before the report was circulated there had been a ball in the “Museum,” at which Ludwig had been present. The young ladies belonging to the court had been remarkable for their charming dresses. Sophie, in particular, had displayed all the magic of her beauty.

At six o’clock the next morning the King hastened to his mother, and requested her, in his name, to ask the Duchess’s hand.

Queen Marie had since her marriage been on terms of warm friendship with the young Duchess’s parents and their family. She was pleased at her son’s prompt decision. She drove in the early morning hours to the palace of Duke Max and the Duchess Ludovica. Nothing had occurred to prepare the Duke or his wife for what was about to happen, but they were proud at the unexpected offer of marriage. One of their daughters was an empress,[2] they had seen another of their daughters a queen.[3]; now the youngest of them, and the one nearest her mother’s heart, would have her place on the throne of Bavaria. The young Duchess, too, gave her consent without hesitation. Eye-witnesses have, however, declared that her face, otherwise so fresh, became exceedingly pale when she promised the Queen-mother to marry her son. At nine o’clock Ludwig himself arrived. An hour later the formal engagement was celebrated.

The news, which was rapidly spread through the capital on this morning, became certainty in the evening. On the 22nd of January, 1867, there was given at the Hof Theater a new play by Benedix. The King was present at the performance. After the conclusion of the first act, the Queen-mother came in. She and her son walked across to the ducal box, where Sophie was sitting with her youngest brother, and together they fetched the young girl to the “Imperial box,” where she seated herself between the two. There are still alive in Munich elderly persons who remember the memorable night when the Princess walked in on Ludwig’s arm, and gracefully bowed to the public.

The Duchess was born on the 22nd of February, 1847. She was often to be seen in the Bavarian national costume, which was very becoming to her; and she was considered by many to be better-looking than the Empress Elizabeth, who was celebrated for her beauty. A light blue dress of silk clung this evening to her slender figure. Her hair, which was almost too thick and abundant, was dressed in plaits. Her face was radiant and pure. A pair of unfathomable blue eyes, with dark lashes, looked up at the King.

On the 29th of January the engagement was officially announced to the Chamber, which voted an address of congratulation. It concluded with the following words: “May all the blessings which a married life can give grow forth in abundance from the alliance which it is your Majesty’s intention to contract, to the happiness of your Majesty, to the prosperity of the royal house, to the blessing of the country!” The deputation was not granted an audience; it had to content itself with congratulating Ludwig and his betrothed on the 6th of February at a court ball.

The country was surprised at the King’s choice; no one could understand why he had so suddenly taken this decision. The news was received with sympathy, but at first without real enthusiasm. The three former Kings of Bavaria had had Protestant wives, and the Protestant part of the population would have preferred Ludwig to make a similar choice. In the capital itself, however, people were very well satisfied. As he had in no way been influenced, and as there could be no political grounds for a marriage with a member of the royal house, it was assumed that inclination alone had dictated his proposal; and this assumption seemed in accord with his leaning towards the romantic. It was hoped, moreover, that the marriage would chase away his love of solitude, which had already begun to show itself, and also that the court would gain in brilliancy.

Ludwig understood how to throw glamour on his alliance; and, little by little, people began to show interest in his bride. Double portraits of the young couple were to be seen everywhere; and men and women of the populace would stand for hours in pouring rain to catch a glimpse of the Duchess. During the Carnival the young Monarch gave a series of balls; and on the 28th of February the engaged couple were present at an entertainment given in their honour by the Minister of the Royal House and of Foreign Affairs, Prince Hohenlohe. On the 23rd of March they took part in a masquerade at the Casino.

The King appointed the 12th of October as the day of his wedding; both his father and grandfather had been married on that day. On the occasion of Maximilian II.’s marriage, a respectable couple in poor circumstances, chosen from each of the provinces of the kingdom, had been given 1000 guldens from the royal exchequer. It was decided that a similar sum should be distributed on Ludwig’s marriage. In all circles of society and all parts of the kingdom wedding presents were in course of preparation. The city of Munich built a coach decorated with cupids, which cost 100,000 guldens. The Palatinate sent some fine horses from the noted stud of Zweibrücken, and a cask of noble wine. In the royal Palace the so-called garden suite was fitted up for the reception of the future Queen. This had formerly been used by Ludwig I. and Maximilian II.; but Ludwig intended to retain his old apartments, which were situated above those destined for Sophie. The painted ceiling in the vestibule, which dates from the seventeenth century, was tastefully restored; and the Palace was soon brilliant with truly royal lustre. In the chief workshops of the city workmen were designing, hammering, carving, and forging household utensils and articles of ornament. Commemorative medals were struck bearing the heads of the King and his bride, and the most skilful engravers of the country drew the young Duchess, in order that her picture might be spread abroad on the marriage day in hundreds of thousands of copies.

Ludwig I. was still alive: the news of the betrothal reached him in Italy. He was pleased at this marriage between his sister’s youngest daughter and his grandson. Shortly before he had seen at Pompeii a fresco depicting Venus and Adonis, and having thought to find a likeness between Ludwig and the beautiful youth, he now embodied his idea and good wishes in some verses which referred to the aforesaid picture. They conclude thus:—

“Des Lebens Höchstes haben sie erworben.

Nie werde durch die Welt dein Glück verdorben,

Nie heisse es: die Liebe ist gestorben!”

The King had asked the hand of his cousin in a moment of infatuation; but it was not the fire of his senses which burned within him: his feelings were the joy of the artist at the sight of beauty. More than one trustworthy chronicler of the events of this time has hinted that the Duchess had a serious inclination for another, and that it was the desire of her parents for the marriage with her cousin which influenced her decision in favour of it. Although Ludwig was hardly her first love it was impossible that she could have been insensible to his beauty, which fascinated all women, or to the charm of his manner and personality when in his best moods. All who knew Sophie as a girl speak enthusiastically of her liveliness and buoyancy. Her goodness of heart was also praised, though this did not exclude a light vein of mockery. She was gay; but she was, nevertheless, haughty and proud, and there is hardly any ground to doubt that she was tempted by the brilliance of a royal crown.

Early in the spring the ducal family went out to Possenhofen, and Ludwig at the same time took up his residence at the château of Berg. His little yacht, the Tristan, often bore him to the house of his betrothed, where he was in the habit of spending the evenings. He showered costly presents on Sophie. Every morning the royal lover rode round the Starnberger See to offer her in person a bunch of roses. If he came too early he gave the bouquet to her waiting-maid; and on the way back from his ride, stopped to see the Duchess. Thus weeks and months passed by. The idyll had not apparently suffered any break. It was Ludwig’s hope that his future wife would be the friend of his loneliness. He talked often to her of Richard Wagner, whom he loved so dearly. He recited to her poems, ancient and modern, and scenes from Schiller’s dramatic works. She listened at first with pleasure to his declamations and outpourings; but at length grew tired of them. The King was of a suspicious nature; he suspected Sophie and himself. He sent her notes and presents in the middle of the night, exacting long letters of thanks by the returning messenger. If she forgot to fulfil a single wish of his he was sulky for days. Unwarrantable fits of violence alternated with profound melancholy. He suffered from headache; and his excited nerves required solitude. After the intoxication of the first few weeks was past, his betrothed saw in him a total stranger. His extraordinary caprices gave her anxiety; and his intellectual life was a closed book to her superficial nature. If she was wanting in the ability to follow his flights of fancy, he on his side was incapable of satisfying her need for love. There was in the whole of this connection something which was artificial, and which did not ring true. The Duchess had a hasty temper. The restless state of mind induced in her by his changing moods made her capricious and unable to govern herself. Misunderstandings which at first had gone unheeded, began to arise between the young couple; disagreements separated them still more from one another. Long before Sophie knew for certain that the engagement would be broken off, a presentiment must have warned her that it could not possibly endure.

[1] Frau Louise von Kobell says, in her reminiscences, that infatuation went so far that several ladies lost their reason, although the King had not given them the slightest ground to suppose that their feelings were reciprocated. [↑]

[2] Elizabeth, Empress of Austria and Queen of Hungary. [↑]

[3] Maria, Queen of Naples. [↑]

CHAPTER X

The King goes to Paris—Disharmonies between the Engaged Couple—Ludwig meets the Emperor Napoleon and the Empress Eugénie in Augsburg—The King breaks his Promise of Marriage

In the midst of the preparations for the wedding the King made several journeys. At the beginning of June he went with Prince Otto to Eisenach, in order to see Wartburg. Later in the summer he went to Paris, where an International Exhibition was going on.

The Paris paper La Situation had long in advance announced that the King of Bavaria would visit that city. His arrival was looked upon as an event which might be of political importance. Although he at once paid a visit at the Tuileries, he made no secret of the fact that he had come to France as a private gentleman, and wished to preserve the strictest incognito. The Empress Eugénie was in England; but Napoleon received him as an honoured and welcome guest. He invited him to his magnificently restored palace in the Bois de Compiègne, where a review of troops was held in his honour. At the lunch which followed this there were present the King of Portugal and Prince Anton of Hohenzollern-Siegmaringen and his son, the Hereditary Prince Leopold, whose candidature for the Spanish throne three years later caused Napoleon to risk his crown.

The King of Bavaria appreciated but little the pleasures of the Imperial court. He spent the greater number of his evenings at the “Grand Opera” and the “Theâtre Lyrique.” The chief part of the day he spent in the Exhibition, where the sections devoted to art and education particularly attracted his attention. It was his design to remain in the French capital until the Empress Eugénie’s return. His visit was, however, cut short by the news that his father’s brother Otto, the former King of Greece, had died at the castle of Bamberg, where he had passed his latter years. Ludwig hurried back to Munich, and was present on the 30th of July at his uncle’s interment.

The business houses of the capital were meanwhile at work on wedding gifts for their King. Letters and presents continued to be exchanged between the engaged couple; and nothing hinted to the outer world that storm-clouds had arisen. In the month of August Napoleon and Eugénie came from Paris to Salzburg, to meet the Emperor and Empress of Austria. They stopped a day in Augsburg. Napoleon in his youth had been a pupil at the College of St Anna in that town, and wished to revisit well-known spots. Ludwig met the Emperor and Empress at Augsburg and accompanied them to Munich, where the Queen-mother received the august travellers. The tie between the engaged couple seemed far as yet from being loosened; the King presented Sophie to the Empress, who heartily kissed both the young people.

Still Ludwig continued his rides along the shores of the lake of Starnberg.

One morning he stopped earlier than usual outside Possenhofen with his bunch of flowers. As usual he went up to the ground floor of the castle. At the top step he met a lady’s-maid, who rushed past him, and at the same moment a washing-basin was flung after the fugitive. The water streamed out of it just as his Majesty was setting his foot on the threshold. Near-sighted as he was, Ludwig nevertheless saw who was the cause of this scene: his betrothed, who rapidly disappeared behind the next door, looked at this moment more like a Fury than a Venus! He stood a moment aghast; then hurried down, swung himself into the saddle, and rode rapidly away. He was expected in vain that evening at Possenhofen.

Judging by the later development of Ludwig’s character, it is probable that a marriage between him and Sophie would never have come about. The scene above described meanwhile hastened on the break. Autumn was at hand, and the day appointed for the marriage drawing near. The wedding coach was ready, eight splendid horses having been bought to draw it. The new Queen’s court had been appointed. The programme of the marriage ceremonies had been made out by the court officials and submitted to his Majesty for approval. All the preparations respecting the court entertainments and popular rejoicings with which the alliance was to be celebrated had been made.

Then one day in September the Minister of the Royal House and Foreign Affairs, Prince Hohenlohe, received a letter in the royal handwriting.[1] “Here is some news for you,” said he to his secretary, handing him the letter. Ludwig briefly informed the Minister that he had decided not to marry the Duchess. He left it to the Prince’s well-known diplomacy to arrange the matter to mutual satisfaction. Hohenlohe at once asked for an audience with the King; but he was informed that his Majesty had left for the highlands a quarter of an hour earlier; his plans were unknown, and his return uncertain.

“This,” observed the Prince, shrugging his shoulders, “is evidently a fixed determination. At any rate, it is better than setting me a year hence to bring about a separation.”

“But there is absolutely no reason for the King’s step,” remarked the secretary.

“For that very reason matters must be arranged in such a manner that she may find a pretext for withdrawing. Go at once to the mint and order them to stop striking the marriage medal,” answered Hohenlohe resolutely.

It was first officially announced that the day of the wedding was postponed, but that the alliance was by no means broken off. Duke Max asked in the name of his daughter when the marriage was to take place; and on his request that a time should be appointed, was informed that “this was impossible on account of the King’s state of health.” The answer gave the ducal house a reasonable pretext for declaring that they would “in such circumstances prefer to consider the engagement at an end.” The King received this declaration “with the deepest regret.”

The rupture was hardly so unexpected by the general public as the engagement had been; for, thanks to Hohenlohe’s care, the public mind had been prepared. Nevertheless, the event was for long a standing subject of conversation. Opportunity had been given for the most varied surmises, and stories and hints were not lacking. Some sought the reason in a mutual want of sympathy. Others knew better, affirmed that the Duchess loved another, and that the King had discovered this fact.

But all were loath to think that their beloved Ludwig was in any way to blame in the matter.

Sophie’s reputation was hardly treated. Gossips and court sycophants threw suspicion on her. Disparaging and marvellous accounts of her conduct were circulated, and were never lived down. It is little to the King’s honour that he never took any step whatever to do justice to the woman he had wished to make his wife and the Queen of his kingdom.

[1] “Otto, Freiherr von Völderndorff: Vom Reichskanzler, Fürsten von Hohenlohe” (Munich 1902). [↑]

CHAPTER XI

After the Parting with Sophie—Episodes from the King’s Excursions in the Highlands

Though Ludwig’s initiative had dictated the rupture with Sophie, it is certain that at the end the parting was not easy to him, and that it was not without influence on his future life. A marked change in his manner took place from this time.

Immediately after this event he retired to his most secluded castle. He was free, but he was not happy. He became more suspicious and shy than before; and it was plain to all that he was harassed by inward disquiet. His good relations with the ducal house were, of course, destroyed. He had not a single real friend, not one person in his entourage with whom he could talk confidentially. The break cast a deep shadow even over his relations with his mother. She avoided him, in her disappointment and anger, instead of endeavouring to win his confidence and help him in his mental struggles, and his love of solitude increased with his bitterness at her coldness.

Duties, however, called him back to his capital; by New Year 1868 he was again in Munich. The people showed signs of pleasure at having him amongst them once more; the windows of the Residenz were lighted up on the dark winter evenings, crowds of the curious besieged the entrances, admired the vestibules and staircases, which were filled with flowers, and listened to the music as they caught snatches of it from inside.

The King was holding court; he gave concerts and balls. The festivities, however, were short-lived: Ludwig I. died at Nice. All entertainments were cancelled; and again the troubled man was able to retire from the world. Those, and there were many, who desired an audience of him were compelled to put their patience to the proof, and in the end the greater number of these aspirants had to take their departure without having been granted one. Even here, in retirement, he was unaccountable. He refused foreign potentates the sight of his magnificent palaces and winter gardens; but took round one of them a Swiss student, and showed him all its beauties. He was caprice itself, unaccountable as the most changeable of women. One day he would be affable, the next inaccessible and silent. These qualities, however, were chiefly apparent in his relations with the heads of society. Among the peasantry he was amiable and straightforward; and he retained his popularity among the working classes to the end of his reign. The country people round about those places where he chiefly resided to this day tell many charming stories of him. Thus a gentleman who was touring in the mountains came one day to Hohenschwangau. As he was wandering about in the vicinity of the castle he saw a young man coming towards him. The latter wore a short black coat, had a Tyrolese hat on his head, and carried a large fish in his hand. The stranger took him for a gardener, and asked him if it was possible to see over the castle.

“When the King is there no one dares to enter it,” answered the young man; “but as he is not there just now, I can show you round if you wish.” The offer was naturally accepted with gratitude. The fictitious gardener very obligingly showed the stranger through the apartments, where all the servants bowed respectfully. They stopped before the King’s bed-chamber, the young man explaining that visitors were not allowed to enter it. After they had seen everything, he took a complaisant farewell of the stranger, who concluded by asking where his Majesty was at the time.

“The King was in the castle when we went over it,” was the answer.

“And we did not see him?” exclaimed the gentleman in surprise.

“You did see him. I am the King!”

One day when Ludwig was walking alone in the mountains he met a goat-herd. “I am going to drive my goats home,” said the boy, “but I don’t know what time it is.”

“Have you no watch?” asked the King. “How could I have a watch?” answered the child. Ludwig told him, smiling, what the hour was, and the day afterwards sent him a watch as a present.

When on his lonely drives he often passed through a village where he had noticed a cottage belonging to a shoemaker. The man was always to be found tending his flowers in the little patch of garden. One day Ludwig stopped the carriage outside the village and walked to the shoemaker’s, where he remained outside the fence watching the man, who was busy in his garden.

“Master,” said he, “you are not quite successful with your lilies.”

“No,” answered the shoemaker, who did not recognise the King; “I have not grudged work or expense these five years to get pure white lilies, but they always have a green tinge about them. If I could only get into the royal garden—I hear they have such beautiful white lilies there!”

“It would not be any help to you, master,” said Ludwig, “for it is hardly your intention to steal plants there, I think. Nor would you have the opportunity of doing so.”

“What do you think of me, good sir?” exclaimed the man indignantly. “Do you think I would touch my King’s property? All I want is to see this beautiful flower in its full perfection.”

“You might be able to do that. I know the head gardener, and I will put in a good word for you.”

“If you would do that I would willingly make you a pair of boots for nothing.”

“I want no return for such a trifling service,” said Ludwig, taking leave of him with a friendly nod.

The next morning a servant brought the cobbler a large bunch of white lilies from the King.

CHAPTER XII

The Empress of Russia visits Bavaria—The Duchess Sophie’s Engagement and Marriage—An Unexpected Meeting with the Duchesse d’Alençon—A Last Attempt to forge the Links of Hymen around Ludwig

In the latter half of September, 1868, the Empress of Russia came to Munich accompanied by a numerous suite. Her unsuccessful matrimonial project did not seem to have diminished her interest in the Sovereign of Bavaria.

Ludwig received her with the same respect and warmth as before, and entertained her with a magnificence the like of which had not been seen before in his realm. He had caused the apartments in Schloss Berg which were placed at the Empress’s disposal to be done up in exact similarity, according to description, to her rooms in the Russian Palace. A state luncheon at the Palace at Munich and a state performance at the theatre, alternated with excursions to his castles in the vicinity of the capital.

The Tsarina spent an evening with the royal family on the “Roseninsel,” where her young friend had arranged an Italian night with music and singing, and at which the singers of the opera took part. The whole of the lake of Starnberg was illuminated with Bengal lights. In the gardens and courtyard of the château were erected allegorical statues. Every rose-bush hid a surprise. Countless numbers of rockets were sent up into the air above the lake, and moved, many-hued, in the wind. Music was played on a vessel, so clothed in leafage that it resembled an islet, and on which the inhabitants and summer visitors to Starnberg had taken up their position, adding by their applause to the general festivity of the entertainment. It was like a tale from the “Thousand and One Nights.” The Russian Empress expressed the opinion later that she had never experienced anything so romantic as this evening.

The Grand Duchess Maria did not accompany her mother on this occasion. The King’s engagement to his cousin, and his breaking off of it, had convinced the Empress that, amiable as he was as a friend, she would probably do wisely in cooling her ardour to possess him as a son-in-law.

There is no doubt that the broken engagement had injured the Duchess Sophie’s reputation; but it proved, nevertheless, that the incident had by no means diminished her chances of making another advantageous match. A reigning German Prince—a near relative of the King—went in the summer of 1868 to Munich with the intention of learning to know her, and of asking her hand. Another suitor had meanwhile been before him. On the 1st of July, 1868, the Duc de Nemours and his son had visited Possenhofen; and on the 11th of July of the same year, during a visit to Baden-Baden, the engagement of Sophie to Prince Ferdinand of Orleans, Duc d’Alençon was publicly announced.[1]

Shortly afterwards the Prince and his father went to England to make arrangements for the new home. The wedding took place on the 28th of September, 1868, at eleven in the forenoon, in the royal chapel at Possenhofen. At the marriage, which was performed by the Abbé Haneberg, were present, besides the bride’s parents and brothers, the Count and Countess di Trani, the Hereditary Princess Helene of Thurn and Taxis, and several of the Bavarian princes and princesses, also the Duc de Nemours, with both his daughters, the Comte de Paris, the Prince de Joinville, with his wife and son, and other members of the house of Orleans. The Empress of Austria and the ex-Queen of Naples, the latter with her husband, who had shortly before visited their paternal home, had left Bavaria immediately before the wedding.

The Neuesten Nachrichten of Munich, from which I have gathered these details, is silent on the subject of an episode which has lately become known through Freiherr von Völderndorff’s reminiscences of Prince Hohenlohe. In the midst of the ceremony Ludwig II. suddenly appeared, accompanied by the Empress of Russia, who was his guest at the time. His entrance had the most painful effect on all present. The King remained for over an hour in the home of the bride, apparently without in the least noticing the feeling of constraint which his presence occasioned. His determination to congratulate his former fiancée on her wedding-day was without doubt one of those momentary impulses which were continually fluctuating in the neurotic man’s restless mind.

The Duc and Duchesse d’Alençon went to England, where they lived during the first years of their married life. But Sophie often came back to Possenhofen. Ludwig avoided meeting her with the greatest care. Many years later they accidentally encountered one another at Seeshaupt on the lake of Starnberg. An accident had happened to his horses, and he had alighted from his carriage and had got up beside a peasant who was driving past, in order to return to Berg. At that juncture the Duchess Ludovica, with her youngest daughter by her side, drove past. The King ordered the peasant to make way for her equipage. He turned his head aside and took no notice whatever of the ladies.

After the marriage of the Duchess, a rumour was spread abroad that Ludwig was again about to become engaged. He made a trip, in the strictest incognito, from Hohenschwangau to Friedrichshafen on Bodensee, travelling under the name of “Graf von Schyren,” and accompanied by a single servant. The King and Queen of Würtemberg had invited him to visit them. Queen Olga, a Russian princess, who had relinquished with regret the hope of seeing the Archduchess Maria Queen of Bavaria, had at this juncture planned a new engagement. Princess Emma of Waldeck-Pyrmont[2] was on a visit to the royal couple. The Queen had made up her mind that this young lady, who was exceedingly musical and a great admirer of Wagner’s compositions, should make the acquaintance of the King of Bavaria, with the view of a possible matrimonial alliance between them. Ludwig appeared to be attracted by the Princess, who in her turn was charmed with the gallant and intellectual Monarch. The day spent at Friedrichshafen passed quickly and pleasantly. Evening came, and Ludwig thought of returning to his home. While he and the Princess were still sitting together at the piano he became restless. He remarked that it was getting late, and that the time for his departure was at hand. Almost immediately he rose to depart. He took a warm farewell of the Princess, and a no less hearty one of the King and Queen of Würtemberg, promising that he would soon come again and perhaps stay longer. From the steamer, which had been waiting for him, he waved several times to the King and Queen, and the Princess, who were standing on the quay looking after him.

He never came back, however, and apparently forgot both the charming day in Friedrichshafen and Princess Emma of Waldeck-Pyrmont.

[1] The grandson of King Louis Philippe of France, and eldest son of the Duc de Nemours and Victoria, née Princess of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha. [↑]

[2] The present Queen-mother of Holland. [↑]

CHAPTER XIII

Ludwig and the Artistes of the Stage—Josephine Schefzky

His subjects began to give up the hope of seeing their King a husband. Several political parties, however, hoped that they might be able to influence him through a mistress. Their expectations were disappointed also in this. After the breaking-off of his engagement, the fair sex played but a small part in the King’s life. He seems to have looked upon women with the same eyes as the poet Holberg, who in one of his letters writes that he regards them as “pretty pictures”—to be looked at, but not to be touched! Those who knew Ludwig are entirely agreed that he never felt real love for any woman, not even for his betrothed wife, though at one time he appeared to do so. To Richard Wagner, he said at one of their first meetings: “You do not like women either, do you? They are such bores!”

Ludwig’s indifference did not, however, prevent him from feeling friendship for several women.[1] His artistic interests, moreover, brought him into contact with others of them; and in his youth he often summoned actresses and women-singers to his palaces in order that they might recite and sing to him. He astonished them by his remarkable memory, for if they left out but a single word he would immediately supply it. Not infrequently he would himself take a part in a dialogue, and his gifts of elocution are said to have been charming.

Some of his experiences with the artistes whom he invited to his palaces can hardly have contributed to increase his respect for women. The fêted actress, Frau von Bulyowska, declaimed before him at Hohenschwangau fragments of Schiller’s dramas. For some time he delighted in Mary Queen of Scots; he had her engraved, he had her painted, he had her acted at the theatre. The aforesaid actress, who had taken the part of Mary Stuart, had to stand as model to the court painter, who made sketches of her for use in a painting of that unfortunate Queen. Frau von Bulyowska thought this was the outcome of an interest on Ludwig’s side in her person; and she unreservedly avowed her intention of seducing the young Monarch, and of playing the rôle of a Madame de Pompadour at his court.