Secret Memoirs: The Story of Louise, Crown Princess

CHAPTER XLIII
THE CROWN PRINCESS QUELLS A RIOT

Asked to play the coward, and I refuse – A hostler who would die for a look from me – Hostler marriages in royal houses – Anecdotes and unknown facts concerning royal ladies and their offspring – Refuse police escort and rioters acclaim me – Whole royal family proud of my feat.

Dresden, July 3, 1900.

Behold Louise, a political personage!

I was driving with my little ones in the Bois yesterday afternoon. We occupied an open court carriage, conspicuous for livery and magnificent horse-flesh, for I love display and the children enjoy it. We were driving along leisurely enough when there was hasty clatter of hoofs and wheels behind. Presently a royal coupé dashed up alongside.

The Tisch stuck her head out:

"Imperial Highness – the town's in revolt. – Socialist riot. They are marching upon the palace. – For the love of God, return at once. Your Imperial Highness must take a seat in this inconspicuous carriage. We will change to the first Droschke we meet, going through side-streets."

"My dear Baroness," I answered, "it's not in my nature to shirk peril. If I were to be hanged and quartered and could avoid that unpleasantness by changing from my carriage to a cab – I would be hanged and quartered. Take the children and return to the palace any way you like.

"As for me, I'll go back as Her Imperial Highness, the Crown Princess of Saxony, and my coachman will drive slowly."

I kissed the children, and the coupé rolled away at a sharp clip.

Calling the coachman by name, I commanded him: "You heard what my Grand Mistress said. Riot or no riot, I am solely responsible for my own safety. You will take orders from no one but me, neither from the mob nor the police."

The coachman lifted his hat respectfully and bowed a submissive "At Your Imperial Highness's orders." The groom, a young, good-looking fellow, struck the broadsword at his side.

"There is some good steel in this, Your Imperial Highness," he said with sparkling eyes. I believe this poor fellow would have died for a single look from me.

Among royal servants, the most devoted are those connected with the Marstall. No wonder so many of my sisters born on the steps of the throne, fell in love with their Master of Horse or equerries; some with mere hostlers, like Queen Christina of Spain, the mother of my aunt Isabelle, of amorous memory. Her lover, Munoz, of the Body Guards, was a famous equestrian and two years younger than Christina. He managed horses so well, she thought it would be great fun to boss this giant. But it ended by the brute lording it over her, the "Catholic Majesty." By the way, I wonder what became of Christina's and Munoz's several children. While they lived together from 1833 to 1844 without the sanction of either law or church, they were "regularly married" in the end, the hostler, Munoz, metamorphosing into Duke Rianzares. Yet the Almanach de Gotha knows not their progeny when, as "love children," they should live long and happily.

Another "hostler-marriage" occurred in the family of the proud Kaiser, the contracting parties being Princess Albrecht of Prussia and a groom, whose name I forget. This Princess, Marianne of the Netherlands, brought the first "real" money into the Hohenzollern family, and her husband, Albrecht, was long regarded the Crœsus among German princes.

After the divorce, His Royal Highness forced the ex-wife to marry the hostler, and the bloom of forbidden love having worn off in the meantime, Marianne seldom passed a day without being soundly beaten by the plebeian. Maybe she liked it. Some women do.

Today her offspring with Master Fisticuffs are sturdy farmers in Silesia, but two of the three sons she had with the royal Prince, as well as the sons the royal Prince had with his second wife, Rosalie von Rauch, are degenerates. Rosalie's sons are known as Counts Hohenau and the wife of the elder, Fritz, is giving my astute and pious cousin, the Kaiserin, considerable heart-ache.

Curious, isn't it? The children of the "adulteress" are successful men and women, aids in the progress of the world; those of the blood royal, in double or single doses, a menace to public morality. This much for your royal inbred custom.

But back to Dresden. The order to drive slowly was soon rescinded, for I was burning to see a riot at close range. "Plein carrière," I commanded, and my fast Carrossiers went at a tremendous rate for two miles. The moment I saw, in the distance, knots of people standing round or moving in the direction of the palace, I cried: "Schritt," and we proceeded as leisurely as if following a funeral.

As we turned around a corner, a detachment of gendarmes, sent to watch for me, hove into sight. Their commanding officer signalled frantically to the coachman to stop, but George had his instructions and proceeded.

The officer spurred his horse and rode up to me, questioning me with his eyes.

"My orders," I explained.

"Then I must escort Your Imperial Highness."

"Don't."

"Strict orders from my superior officer, Your Imperial Highness," and the gendarmes formed a cordon around my carriage.

I was furious. "Send for your commander."

The captain of the gendarmes could not be found at once and joined my cavalcade only when we were opposite a living wall of excited people, nearly all of them workmen.

"What is Your Imperial Highness's pleasure?" asked the captain, bending down from his horse.

"Send your men away instantly."

"But the responsibility?"

"Rests with me and with me only. Send them away. Every one of them."

The mob was watching us. I read suspicion in the eyes of those nearest. The captain gave the sign and the troopers turned their horses' heads, saluting me with their drawn swords.

"May I act as Your Imperial Highness's out-rider?" asked the captain in a low voice.

"Don't trouble yourself. I command you."

The groom had been watching us. I gave the signal and we proceeded at a pace. The rampart of human bodies swung open and lined the sides of the streets. Someone cried: "Three cheers for the Crown Princess," and everyone responded.

These Socialists, whom I had been taught to hate and despise, behaved in exemplary style. When I dismissed their tyrants, the gendarmes, they immediately took me under their protection. I am sure anyone daring to insult me, or raise a hand against me, would have fared badly at the hands of his fellows.

I was all smiles, bowing right and left. Labor agitators raised their hats to me, mothers offered their children that I might pat their little hand, or lay mine on their head – a veritable triumph!

When I drove into the palace yard, the Guards rushed out to do me honor. The Queen, the King and Prince George saluted me from the windows of their apartments.

Frederick Augustus embraced me in front of everybody. In short I was made a hero of.

I afterwards learned that as soon as the palace knew of the incipient riot, the King sent word to all members of the royal family, ordering them to stay in their apartments. They were even forbidden to show themselves at the windows overlooking the palace square.

Learning that I had gone driving, mounted grooms were dispatched in all directions to intercept me. The Tisch, being responsible for the royal children, got the fastest team the court commands and started for the Bois.

It gave me some satisfaction to observe that I arrived before her. Of course, I never doubted the children's safety.

The evening papers devoted columns to the little incident and Prince George had the great sorrow to hear the King say: "A dare-devil, that Louise, but she did the right thing. By pretending confidence in the loyalty of the people, she successfully gulled them. The riot's back was broken when she showed a bold front."

CHAPTER XLIV
THE NEW LOVER, AND "I PLAY THE HUSSY FOR FAIR"

Who is that most exquisite Vortänzer? – A lovely boy – "Blush, good white paper" – I long for Henry – My eyes reflect love – "I must see you tonight. Arrange with Lucretia" – Sorry I ever loved a man before Henry – Poetry even – I try to get him an office at court – Afraid women will steal him.

Pillnitz, September 5, 1900.

Dance at the royal summer residence. Concentrated ennui as a rule, but a complete success this time.

I have seen Him, – capital "H." He is the one man for me.

I am happy; I am myself again. All sorrows are forgotten. I am ten years younger.

Love at first sight. I the aggressor. I must be getting very clever since I managed to hide it from hundreds of searching eyes, even from my entourage.

"Lucretia," I whispered breathlessly to my confidante, "find out the name of the Vortänzer, quick."

The Vortänzer, at royal courts, is a sort of official master of the dance, who sets the pace for the company, combining the duties of master of ceremonies and of dancing master.

The more I looked at the Vortänzer, the more he enchanted me. Taller than any other man present, elegant, blonde, clean-shaven. Not an ounce of superfluous flesh, I judged. Might be the reincarnation of the Duc de Richelieu, who seduced my three cousins d'Orleans.

His face is livid with white and carmine tints; his eyes glow with an irresistible charm. That figure of his! The elegance of the palm tree, both straight and flexible. And the infinity of grace as he waltzed that little Baroness around.

"Baron Bergen, of the Guards," breathed Lucretia into my ear.

"My Master of Ceremony will command Baron Bergen at the end of this dance."

When he stood before me, bowing and smiling, the idea that he was Richelieu reincarnated became almost a certainty with me.

Like Richelieu, his face has the refinement that we admire in women (I forgot to say that I became infatuated with him merely from seeing a back view of the man. When he turned around, I was lost).

While he chanted the usual compliments, my eyes hung upon his cherry lips, reveled in his white, strong teeth. The man I want. I say it without shame, without care.

Blush, good, white paper! I am giving an account of my feelings, and if they be impure, there's something wrong with nature.

Even as I write, I tremble with longing, with desire for Henry.

Ten days since we first met. It might have been this morning, so lively and overwhelming is the recollection. I am impatient for his kisses, for his blonde loveliness, for his whole self, – just as if we hadn't loved and kissed scarce an hour ago.

"My horse, Lucretia. We'll go for a canter. I must have air and plenty of it."

Pillnitz, September 10, 1900.

I must give some additional account of our first meeting at the court ball. Ah, I was the hussy for fair! He couldn't help seeing the impression he made upon me. My eyes must have reflected it in letters of flame. I wish he were as bold as the Duc, who slept on a pillow stuffed with the hair of his mistresses, past and present.

I never made such advances to any man. I was gone clean off my head.

When he reddened and when his left hand, resting on the hilt of his sword, trembled, I became intoxicated.

And I danced with him, and I was angry with myself for lacking the courage to say: "Feel my heart beat." My great-great-aunt and namesake, Marie Antoinette, did and won the love of her life, – Fersen.

But we fin de siècle women are cowards. All I said to him was: "I must see you tonight. Arrange with Lucretia."

Dresden, September 30, 1900.

Summer heat continues, but no country-seat for me! The town is a much safer place for lovers, and old Countess Baranello keeps open house for us all the year round. We meet daily. I persuaded Henry's colonel that the lieutenant would never be a courtier unless he saw more of court life and was relieved, to a certain extent, of duties on the drill ground.

We see each other mornings or afternoons at the Countess's. The evenings we spend at the theatre together, I in the box, he in the fauteuil once sacred to Romano. Every Saturday afternoon we concoct the repertoire for the week following, and he goes at once to secure tickets for the various entertainments I intend to visit for his sake.

Dresden, October 1, 1900.

I wish I had never loved any man before Henry. I wish he had known me as an innocent girl. I wish I wasn't royal. Then I could get a divorce and marry him, but now, if I got ten divorces, he would always be the insignificant Baron, I the Princess of the Blood.

And I couldn't see my love humiliated!

As a talisman he wears on his chest a golden locket with my miniature. In exchange he gave me a Portebonheur with his picture and a few sweet words.

So help me, God, I am in love with this man, – love him to the verge of poetry. Indeed, I am writing silly verse in his honor, and later haven't the courage to show it to him. Par example:

 
I want you most, dear, when the sunset bright
Makes of the hills a glorious funeral pyre,
So die the love-light in your eyes, if die it must,
And leave the wondrous, throbbing silence of the night.
 

Henry isn't very intellectual, I am afraid, but he is the finest horseman in the world.

If I were Queen, I would barter a regiment to have him appointed my Chief Master of Horse. Augustus of the three-hundred and fifty-two sold one for his first night with Cosel.

I am racking my brains for a pretense to have him appointed to court duty, – anything to give him the entrée to my apartments. But he is far too beautiful. The sanctimonious cats that envy me my happiness, that look upon love as a crime, would at once combine to destroy him.

Well, we'll have to bear with the difficulties of the situation forced upon us by these moral busy-bodies. As for me, I'll be thrice careful, for if He was taken away from me, all the joy would go out of my life.

CHAPTER XLV
LOVE AND THE HAPPINESS IT CONVEYS

My Grand Mistress suspects because I am so amiable – Pangs of jealousy – Every good-looking man pursued by women – A good story of my cousin, the Duchess Berri – We all go cycling together – The Vitzthums – Love making on the street – A mud bath.

December 15, 1900.

When one is in love and loved a-plenty, weeks and months roll by without notice by the happy ones.

For my part I never thought there was so much happiness in the world as I am experiencing since the beginning of September. But I have my troubles, too. First, the Tisch. When a lady is well pleased by her lover, then her eyes are bright, her cheeks glow, her lips smile; she bears with her entourage; she is kind to her servants. The moment I treated the Tisch as a human being, she began to suspect, and I am sure she is eating her heart out fretting because God gave me both nuts and teeth to crack them.

But I am qualifying as an expert deceiver, and my Grand Mistress won't catch me in a hurry.

My other great trouble is: long separations from Henry, hours upon hours in daytime, half the nights.

What is he doing when he is not with me? Of course he pretends to tell, but I am not goose enough to suppose that he would incriminate himself for the love of truth. He is hiding things from me, perhaps cheating me. I have to arm myself with all the faith loving woman commands to forestall occasional noisy out-breaks of jealousy.

Was there ever a good-looking man, women didn't try to capture and seduce? Manly beauty is the red rag that enthralls and excites women and renders them dishonest, though their honor doesn't lodge at the point they designate as its habitat.

Sometimes, when in these jealous frenzies, I wish Henry had a face like a Chinese kite, or like Riom, husband and lover of my ancestress, the Duchess du Berri.

She was "satisfied" with him, but since her lady-in-waiting, too, was, I might, after all, fare no better than Berri, if Henry was a toad, "his skin spotted like a serpent's, oily like a negro's, changeable like a chameleon, with a turned up nose and disproportionate mouth." Yet I hardly believe that, like my cousin, I would say anent a rival: "Whoever would not be satisfied with him, would be hard to please."

Alas, with women in love the extreme of ugliness counts as triumphantly as the charms of Adonis. Ever since I read certain passages of Faust, part II, Eduard von Hartmann's "Philosophy of the Unconscious," and Lermontoff's "Hero of our Times," I am convinced that to love a man very good-looking, or, on the contrary, a perfect horror, is no sinecure.

Fortunately Henry is almost penniless.

Dresden, January 2, 1901.

Henry's sister married one of the numerous Vitzthums, of the family that furnished the Saxon court with titled servants and maîtresses en titre for the past several hundred years.

I immediately sent word to her ladyship, that having taken up bicycling, I would be pleased to have her attend me on the wheel on the afternoon following. The invitation was issued from the office of my Court Marshal, which is controlled by the King's. Having thus secured beforehand His Majesty's approval, possible criticism was nipped in the bud. The bride asked permission to bring her husband.

"Granted. Order of dress: mufti."

This enabled us, myself and Henry, and the Count and Countess to ride all over town, unrecognized by either officials or the public at large.

It was great fun, and I told the Vitzthums that I intended to wheel every morning at nine, immediately after breakfast. Count Vitzthum is Henry's colonel. Of course he granted both Henry and himself furlough for the time set.

What happiness! Now I don't have to wait till afternoon and evening to see my lover.

Dresden, January 10, 1901.

I am so happy, I am growing careless.

The Vitzthums, profiting by the fact that they are but recently married, prefer to travel in pairs, and always take the lead. Accordingly Henry and myself, incog. as far as my future subjects go, are free to indulge in occasional caresses and sweet nonsense-talk.

I was pouring honeyed words into Henry's ears the other morning when my wheel skidded on the wet pavement, and before he, or I, could save me, I was down on my back in the mud.

The fact that I was again enceinte, and the other fact that I was covered with dirt, ought to have prompted me to return to the palace at once, but how un-Louise-like the straight and sane course would have been.

I allowed myself to be wiped off by Henry; then mounted my wheel anew and raced after the Vitzthums.

Unfortunately, a reporter heard of the incident and, for the benefit of his pocket, made a column out of it.

A few hours after the story appeared in the evening paper, the palace was in an uproar. The King wasn't well enough to scold me, so he delegated that pleasant duty to Prince George. His Royal Highness promptly informed me that the "damned bicycling had to stop."

CHAPTER XLVI
FEARS FOR MY LOVE

Some reflections on queens of old who punished recreant lovers – Henry was in debt and I gave him money – Indignities by which some of that money was earned – Husband accompanies me to Loschwitz – Reflections on Frederick Augustus's character.

January 15, 1901.

My love played the melancholy Dane for the last few days. His tenderness seemed labored, his spirits under a cloud. Every smile I got had to be coaxed from him.

"The end of my happiness," I thought; "some chit of a girl dethroned me." And I cursed my birthday. "A kingdom for ten years off my age."

And my thoughts of thoughts travelled back to the times when royal ladies had their rivals immured, as practiced by a Brandenburg princess at the Kaiser's hunting box at Grünewald, or made a head shorter, like Lady Jane Grey, who was far too pretty to please Elizabeth; or shot, as elected by Queen Christina, tribade and nymphomaniac both.

And the things Queen Bess did to her unfaithfuls and the crimes Mary Stuart perpetrated to cheat Jeannie Bothwell out of her doughty Hepburn!

"If I were Queen," I thought, and I must have spoken aloud, for Henry said: "You would make me a great lord, love, wouldn't you, give me the best paying office at court, but that's small comfort to my creditors today."

"It's creditors, mere creditors bothering you?" I almost shouted with joy. This man was still mine. No one had succeeded in luring him away from me. I threw myself upon him and nearly smothered him.

Filthy lucre, or the want of it, oppressing my boy. Money, miserable money, caused me to doubt his very loyalty.

"How much?"

He stuttered and denied and swore it was all a mistake and that I had misunderstood him. "As an army officer – "

"Don't talk like Frederick Augustus. It will give me the greatest pleasure in the world to arrange your affairs, dearest."

I got him to name the sum after a while. What a pity I am not rich. As Catharine sent her Orloffs and Potemkins and Zoritchs to the State Treasury to help themselves as they saw fit, so I would gladly turn fortunes over to Henry, never asking for an accounting.

But this Imperial Highness is wretchedly poor, like most royal women not actually seated on the throne. I can't offer my paramour financial independence, not even luxury, but, thank heaven, I saved up enough to provide for his present needs, even if my treasury be drained to the last twenty-mark piece, and I will have to cut short my charities for the next quarter of a year. But he must not know these sordid details.

Some day I will be Queen. I will reimburse the poor and I will be a true Catharine to Henry.

Dresden, January 16, 1901.

I brought my mite to our rendezvous. Mostly in small bills and twenty-mark pieces. If Henry knew that many of these were earned in the right royal fashion of having them slipped down one's stocking by a husband, too drunk to distinguish a royal palace from a dance-hall!

He told me honestly enough how he got into debt. "How can one lay by for a rainy day when one hasn't got anything?"

I appreciate the play of words, for I am in the same predicament.

Only once has Henry touched a card, but he lost considerably in horse deals, as most young army officers do.

His sister made a rich marriage, but he wouldn't discover himself to her. If she asked money of her husband, there might be trouble, for Vitzthum is not a liberal man.

Loschwitz, April 1, 1901.

The children's health called for country air and I was quasi-forced to retire to Loschwitz, though I have a thousand and one reasons for remaining in Dresden. Frederick Augustus accompanies us. After the strenuous city life (in Dresden!), he needs a change and a long rest from drinking and carousing, he says boastingly.

Of course, while he is here, I dare not invite the Vitzthums. But as soon as he is gone, they shall come for a couple of weeks, and their presence will make Henry's possible.

It's dreadful the way I miss the sweet boy. I suffer like a dog, when the longing seizes me, suffer both in heart and body. When I contemplate his miniature, tears come into my eyes. I often cry for hours thinking of him.

And to have to endure this great booby of a husband of mine day and night, especially nights. It's almost more than I can bear.

The grossness of his egotism reminds me of the story told of King James, whom the English got rid of in 1689.

The Dutch William, instead of waiting peacefully for the heritage of his father-in-law, went to claim it before his death, and James, pressed on all sides by enemies, decided upon flight.

One Sunday, in the month of December, his devotions over, he dismissed all his servants and advised his last partisans to turn towards the rising sun.

After which, he lay for an hour with his wife, the better to take leave of her."

The very thing Frederick Augustus would do if war or revolution made us fugitives.

I never realized the diversity in our natures as much as I do now, when all my thoughts go out to another, when even connubial tendernesses seem like whip-strokes.

The further our souls draw apart, the more disgusting this forced intimacy, the prostitution under the marriage vow, which I detest and abhor.

But what will I do? Shut my door to him? He would kick it in, or climb through the window. It's easier to submit to the violation of my person than to breaking of locks and furniture.