Secret Memoirs: The Story of Louise, Crown Princess

The tears came into his eyes when I told him, and he said: "Imperial Highness, this is the most beautiful hour of my life."

He spoke with enthusiasm; there was fire in his eyes and in his voice, yet a moment later he was again the most reserved of men and conversation lagged.

It happened three days ago. He has paid me four visits since and I notice with astonishment, with curiosity and with alarm, that this man is in love with me.

How long has he loved me?

His love is like a warm mantle 'round my shoulders on a chilly night. It exudes warmth, strength, beatitude, yet there is none of the animal.

He is a good talker on a thousand and one subjects, a thinker and psychologist. Psychology is his strong point. He argues brilliantly on the subject, yet I need only look at him to upset his thesis, to make him stammer and redden.

He's no Count Bielsk and will never tell me of his own accord that he loves me. Is his admiration greater than his love? Perhaps so. It gives me a feeling of security.

Lucretia knows, but in the presence of the Tisch, he plays the servant, deeming himself thrice honored by being allowed to breathe the same air as her Imperial Highness.

Dresden, June 15, 1899.

I frequently drive to the Bois nowadays with the children, the Bois, where I was so happy with Him.

Romano was right, a thousand times right, that he abandoned me when our love was at its zenith.

At Midnight.

It's done.

Barthels came tonight. He was so feverish, so passionate, there was so much humble solicitation in his looks and manners, I was moved to pity.

This man is too over-awed by my rank to ever permit himself to express his feelings by word of mouth. He talked of everything but love and was in the midst of a learned dissertation when I sunk my eyes in his and said:

"Why do you try to hide things from me? Don't I know what's in your heart?"

Like a little criminal – as my oldest boy does occasionally – he turned red, then white, then red again. He buried his face in his hands. He trembled. He seemed to be crying. I arose, and lightly laid my hand upon his blonde head.

He's got the finest, silkiest hair in the world, shimmering like beaten gold.

And then he lay at my feet, covering them with kisses. And instantly all his force, his courage, his eloquence returned.

He went away like a man a-dreaming.

I long for him; I confess I long for him. Whether I love him or not I don't know. But that I know, I will love him.

And if I cannot, what matters it? I don't have to love to be happy. To be loved is enough. I want to be his Queen, his life.

Dresden, July 1, 1899.

Privy Councillor von Barthels told the King that my delicate condition needs constant watching. I go to his clinic every second day, while he visits me once or twice daily at the palace.

Like Melita I am never a bit repentant of my peccadilloes.

If I don't want to do a thing, neither Kaiser, King, George, Frederick Augustus, my parents, the Pope, nor the whole world, can make me. But if I resolve to follow my sweet inclinations, rueing and pining are out of question.

Ferdinand is the most devoted of lovers. He has unlimited tendernesses – a new experience for me.

The lover of my girlhood days overwhelmed me by audacity. The Shah used me like a show-girl. Romano was imperious, super-mannish. For him I was only the female of the species.

Sometimes, in the midst of an embrace, Ferdinand suddenly seems to recollect that a Queen trembles in his arms; the master turns âme damnée. I am Sultana, Louise-Catherine.

Like Catherine the Great, I would throw millions to my favorites and millions more when I dismissed one. At any rate, I would give each a hundred thousand marks "to furnish himself with linen and silks," – a mot invented by the Semiramis of the North.

Dresden, July 5, 1899.

No more clinic for me. Ferdinand begged so hard, that I allowed him to introduce his wife. She came in after we finished our "consultation," a little heap of misfortune, execrably dressed, frightened, almost dead with submissiveness.

And I am robbing this poor creature; it's like stealing pennies from a child. And under her own roof.

It must not be. I am going to the country.

CHAPTER XLI

AN ATROCIOUS ROYAL SCANDAL

A royal couple that shall be nameless – The voluptuous Duchess – Her husband the worst of degenerates – "What monsters these royalties be" – Nameless outrages – A Duchess forced to have lovers – Ferdinand and I live like married folk – Duchess feared for her life – Her husband murdered her – I scold and humiliate my overbearing Grand Mistress – The medical report too horrible to contemplate.

– R, July 15, 1899.

I am afraid to date this entry. Another terrible indictment of royalty. And, as usual, things criminal are at the bottom of the abuse of sovereign power.

The Duchess had a baby and asked me to be godmother to the little girl. The King, eager to oblige his rich cousin, favored the journey. I insisted that Ferdinand accompany me. "Marie," I said, "hates Tisch, and she must, under no circumstances, be commanded to attend me." Lucretia would do. It would be cheaper.

The King first wouldn't hear of Dr. von Barthels going. People might think I had some chronic disease. But he finally gave in for the sake of the child I expect. "We need a few princes more from you," said His Majesty benignly. "When you got about a dozen boys, you can rest." Pleasant job, that of a Crown Princess.

– R, July 16, 1899.

The Duchess is a pretty woman, her face a lovely oval. She has small eyes, the color of amethysts. Her complexion is as white and harmonious as if she washed in sow's milk, like the late Ninon.

Her mouth is sweet, but certain lines indicate that it can bite as well as smile. She has abundant hair, the color of Ferdinand's.

This dainty, albeit voluptuous, little person, is mated to a bull-necked He, pompous, broad and full of the conceit of the duodez satrap.

Marie was forced to marry him; their honeymoon scarcely lasted a fortnight and he treated her shamefully after that. Of course, babies she must bear like any other "royal cow."

Gradually, very gradually, she got over her disappointment and shyness, developing into a cunning, world-wise woman. Then came the man she was bound to love, even as the violet is bound to be kissed by the sun. She had no scruples about accepting him, thinking herself entitled to compensation for the sorrows of her married life. And revenge is sweet.

The Duke found them out in the first month of their young love, walked into her boudoir one fine afternoon and remarked casually that none of his hats would fit him, – "on account of the horns you kindly planted on my forehead."

Marie was more dead than alive when he asked her for the key of her writing desk. She lied and lied; to no purpose.

He kicked open the writing desk, and with his iron fists broke the shelves and pigeon holes, laying bare a secret drawer and stacks of love letters it shielded. These he confiscated. Then locked himself into his room to enjoy his disgrace. This monster is a Masochist and Sadist combined. He loves both to inflict suffering upon himself and upon others.

What monsters royalties be!

In the meanwhile Marie experienced all the tortures of purgatory; she thought of flight, of suicide. Before she could indulge in either her husband was back: Othello in the last act.

Marie was frightened stiff, her brain a whirl, her limbs inert. Rape most foul this crowned satyr committed. "He fell upon me as a pack of hounds overwhelm a hunted, wounded she-stag," she said.

Afterwards he commanded her to describe minutely every detail of her relations with the other. He was primed with the letter-accounts; he made her dot her amorous I's and cross her bawdry T's. And every attempt at omission he punished with kicks and cuffs; no drayman or brick-layer could give a more expert exhibition of woman-beating! And he violated her again.

This was the beginning of a series of outrages of the same gross character. Marie suffered for years and years that His Royal Highness may gratify his unclean fancies: he the pander; she the Cyprian.

"If I ceased having lovers, I think he would kill me," says Marie.

Alas, such is the stuff "God's Anointed" are made of! In the face of such, we pronounce a hypocritical j'accuse upon the Louis's and Pompadours, upon Marie Antoinette even.

The Duchess, who knows, gave Ferdinand an apartment near my own. We are living here like man and wife. He sometimes calls me "Frau Professor."

Loschwitz, July 19, 1899.

Marie is dead. "Died suddenly," said the telegram. I understand now why she begged me, with tears in her eyes, to remain at least two weeks. She was afraid that, though ill and suffering after the confinement, he would treat her as he did when he first found her unfaithful.

"Don't go," she cried. "It will be my death." And when I showed her the King's letter commanding me to return at once, she made her confidential tire-woman swear on the Bible that she wouldn't leave her for a minute, day or night, until she herself released her from the promise.

Private advices from – r say His Highness brutally kicked the faithful maid out of his wife's bedroom and outraged his sick wife while the servant kept thundering at the door, denouncing her master a murderer.

Ferdinand says the great majority of crowned heads are sexual voluptuaries, deserving of the penitentiary or the straight-jacket.

Loschwitz, August 1, 1899.

I caught the Tisch stealing one of my letters. Happily there was nothing incriminating in it, though addressed to Ferdinand, – just the letter the Crown Princess would write to a Privy Councillor. But the petty theft indicates that she suspects. Prince George, I am told, receives a report from her every few days.

Well, I had my revenge. The Queen called today to see the children, and when Her Majesty and myself withdrew into my closet, the Tisch, who had been spying, didn't retire as promptly as she might.

"Can't you see that you are de trop," I said sharply to her. "Please close the door from outside." The Baroness gave a cry of dismay and the Queen was scandalized.

"Louise," she said, "that is no way to treat servants. You should always try to be kind and considerate with them."

"I am, thanks, Your Majesty," I replied. "All the officials and servants love me, but I have very good reasons for treating the Tisch as I do."

Of course, George will hear of this, and the Tisch will be reprimanded by him as well. Spies that compromise themselves, compromise their masters.

The same evening I said to the Tisch in the presence of the nurses:

"My dear Baroness, I wish you would display a little more tact. Listen at my doors as much as you like, but whatever you do, don't spy on Her Majesty in my house." She exuded a flood of tears and I sent her to her room. "Don't come back until you can show a pleasant face. I want to see none other around me."

Loschwitz, August 2, 1899.

Ferdinand received a medical report from – r. My first private advices regarding Marie's death were correct, but the additional details given are too horrible to contemplate.

The poor Duchess was brutally murdered. She died cursing her crowned murderer.

The manner in which she was put to death can only be likened to that of the lover in Heinrich von Kleist's poetically sublime, but morally atrocious, tragedy, Penthesilcia, except that, in poor Marie's case, the woman suffered from the awful frenzy of the male, in whom the "gentlest passion" degenerated in Saturnalia of revolting cruelty. The Duke killed Marie because doing so gave him the most damnable pleasure, – her the most excruciating pain.

Yet the King's will is the highest law and criminals on thrones laugh at the criminal code.

CHAPTER XLII

I LOSE ANOTHER OF MY LOVERS

Happily no scandal – Rewarded for bearing children – $1250 – for becoming a mother – Royal poverty – Bernhardt, the black sheep, in hot water again – The King rebukes me for taking his part.

Loschwitz, August 10, 1899.

Frederick Augustus sent for Ferdinand and gave him to understand that he had received divers anonymous letters, connecting my name with that of the Privy Councillor. "Of course I don't believe a word of it," said my husband, "but one in my position cannot afford to flout public opinion. It will be for the best, if you cease your services to Her Imperial Highness."

Upon the same day Ferdinand received orders from the King to stop his visits.

The Baroness's doings, of course, – pin-pricks when she would like to shoot with sharp cartridges. She evidently doesn't know the full extent of our intimacy. As to Ferdinand, he acted the coward, left my letters unanswered and didn't make the slightest attempt to continue relations that might possibly turn out to his disadvantage.

He is contemptible. My heart is unengaged, but my pride sadly humbled.

Dresden, February 15, 1900.

The King sent me an emerald, one-twentieth the size of that given me by the Shah of Persia. Frederick Augustus did himself proud and, on his part, I gained a pearl necklace in acknowledgment of my renewed services to the state. Little Marguerite was born January 24.

Frederick Augustus also gave me five thousand marks spending money. Not much for a multi-millionaire's wife or daughter, I reckon, but a terrible lot for an Imperial Highness.

When I read of the sums the Vanderbilts, Astors, Goulds and other dollar-kings spend in Paris and London, and even with us in Dresden, I sometimes wish I could exchange places with an American Duchess or Countess long enough to buy all the things beautiful and pretty I would like to own. An awful thing is royal poverty, but the reputation of affluence and unlimited resources, stalking ahead of us, whenever we enter a store or bargain with a jeweler, is worse.

"Your Imperial Highness is pleased to joke," says my man-milliner, when I admit, unblushingly, that I haven't the wherewithal to buy the things I dote on.

Wait till I am Queen, modistes, store-keepers, jewelers! The new Majesty will show you that she cares for money only to get rid of it.

Dresden, February 20, 1900.

This morning Lucretia came running to the nursery and whispered to me: "Imperial Highness, quick, to the boudoir. He begged so hard, I smuggled him in."

She couldn't say more, for the Tisch was watching us. What new trouble was brewing? Could it be Romano, dare-devil, who had come back to me?

If it was that poltroon, Ferdinand, I would have him thrown out by my lackeys.

The mysterious visitor doffed wig and false moustache. "It's me," cried Bernhardt. "You are my only hope."

"What have you been doing again?"

"They threaten to banish my girl from the garrison and I won't stand for it. If they send her away or imprison her, I will kick up such a row, all Europe shall hear of it."

"But why this masquerade?"

"S-s-sh!" whispered the young prince. "I came without leave." Quickly, breathlessly, he continued: "I hear you are in His Majesty's good graces. Go and see him on my behalf. Persuade him to annul the order of banishment or render it ineffective."

"Bernhardt," I said, "why don't you marry?"

"If I could get a girl like you, Louise, I would – today, tomorrow, but the royal scare-crows that will have penniless me, – much obliged! You are a very exceptional woman," he added earnestly.

We held a council of war, discussing the situation from every view-point, and finally I agreed to see Baumann.

"I'll have to vouch for your future good conduct," I said.

"On condition that they leave my girl alone."

"Precisely. And on your part you give me your word of honor not to scandalize the people of your new garrison; to gradually break with the girl and, in the end, get married."

"You are a brick, Louise," cried Bernhardt, and before I could shake him off, he was kissing me all over my face. No cousinly or brotherly kisses! His lips were apart, there was passion in his embrace. I struggled, but his hand pressed against my back. What strength the rascal's got!

Dresden, February 21, 1900.

The King is adamant. I no sooner mentioned Bernhardt's name than his face froze.

"Does your husband know about your interference for that rake?"

When I answered in the negative, he praised Frederick Augustus for strict submission to the royal will and upbraided me for "upholding Bernhardt in his wickedness."

"The boy is desperate," I said.

"If he is desperate," cried the King, "let him do the one reasonable and honorable thing: mend his evil ways. It will come easy if he seeks true strength in prayer, in fasting and religious discipline."

"I submit to your Majesty that it might be well to send Bernhardt travelling."

"On a tour of inspection of houses of ill-fame?" interrupted Albert coldly. "This is a mere waste of words," he added, looking towards the door, "and I'm sorry that Your Imperial Highness has the bad taste to take the part of this disobedient, immoral and altogether reprehensible Lausbub."

That meant my dismissal. I shudder when I think of the consequences of the King's obstinacy.

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.