Secret Memoirs: The Story of Louise, Crown Princess

Frederick Augustus talks of having some more princes and – acts accordingly. Perish the thought that his Louise is an adulteress, that she ever had a lover, has one now!

He is haunting my room, running from door to window, from window to door. Every little while he opens the portières to see if no one's coming to address him "Your Majesty."

"Your popularity with the public is a great asset," he says over and over again. "Lucky devil I, to have a wife as smart as you."

Dresden, November 2, 1902.

Frederick Augustus came running into my room and gave me a bear-hug.

"The doctors say the King is lost. Impossible to keep him alive any longer."

He rushed out.

I am Queen.

After Lunch.

Just back from Richard's studio. We had lunch together. We laughed, we danced, we sang. We bombarded one another with pillows.

We acted the jubilant heirs. I recalled Sybillenort at the time King Albert died. In Saxony, when man or woman shuffles off this mortal coil, there's always a good "feed" at the corpse's expense. At the late King's castle a "mourning breakfast" was served upon the royal family's arrival from Dresden – a most magnificent repast in the matter of plate and victuals offered, but each had to serve himself or herself, as servants were dispensed with.

This by the new King's special orders – that he might hear himself addressed "Your Majesty" by his kith and kin, a formality usually neglected in the family circle except when two or more of the big-wigs are warring against each other.

"Will Your Majesty have one or two lumps of sugar?"

"May it please Your Majesty – some steak?"

"I hope Your Majesty will allow me to peel an orange for Your Majesty."

Thus at Sybillenort. And at Richard's:

"Will Your Greatness (Majesty) deign to take Your Greatness's feather out of my eye?"

Or: "May it never please Your Transparency (Durchlaucht, German for Highness) to let His Greatness see through you."

I am several times a Countess besides a Princess, Duchess, etc., and Richard continued with his paraphrasing of titles:

"Your Illuminatedness8 makes lights quite unnecessary," and he switched them off in a room already darkened by blinds and shades and curtains.

CHAPTER LXIII

WHAT I WILL DO WHEN I AM QUEEN

A foretaste: titled servants put me en route for lover – The bargain I will propose to Frederick Augustus – Frederick Augustus will be a complaisant King – To revive Petit Trianon– I am addressed as Queen.

Dresden, November 3, 1902.

Though still styled Crown Princess, I am already revelling in the delights and perquisites of queenship: I do as I please, go where I please, I would think aloud, as I please, if anyone dared me.

For all my enemies of a week ago turned flatterers and flunkeys, bowing, grovelling, fawning, contemptible in their self-abasement, but quite useful to my purposes.

Like most royal palaces, ours at Dresden has a secret staircase and exit for emergencies. It is never used by ladies; only the princes have recourse to it, occasionally, to drop out of sight in mufti, for, of course, royal incognito is more or less legitimate.

"In the evening, after our card party was over, Catherine was seen to dismiss her court and retire to her private apartments with the new favorite," say the Secret Memoirs of the Court of St. Petersburg.

Less publicly, perhaps, but even more illegitimately, I walk the secret staircase en route for my lover whenever I please nowadays.

I go veiled and – make the Grand Mistress open the door for me. She knows that I am on sweet pleasure bent and – smiles.

"When will Your Imperial Highness deign to return?"

I name the hour and she is there to receive me – smirking, blind, deaf and dumb.

A foretaste of my queenship paradise! No one will boss me, no one will dare talk about me, everything I do will be good, even sublime.

I made up my mind as to Frederick Augustus.

"Frederick Augustus," I will say to him, "now that we are King and Queen, let's enjoy to the full the thing's emoluments; otherwise, what's the use? You will allow me to go my way and I will certainly shut both eyes as to your doings, even if you follow in the footsteps of your namesake of the three-hundred-and-fifty-two."

Of course, I will say it differently, but my husband will understand. The main thing: the royal family and court must stop hurling at me the long, watery haussez les mains of narrow-minded, provincial inquisitiveness, which both oppresses and goads me.

Frederick Augustus has too much respect for the kingly dignity to impugn his partner, the Queen.

Will I revive, then, the seraglios of the Russian Anns and Elizabeths, or start a new Parc aux Cerfs with strong men and Marathon winners for inmates? Thank you, a miniature Petit Trianon will be good enough for me.

The Tisch entered a minute ago and respectfully remains at the door, though she sees I am engaged on my Diary. I watch her in the mirror. She would travel bare-foot to Kevlaar, of which Heinrich Heine sung, for a glimpse of what I wrote. Her variegated grimaces give her the appearance of a carved wooden devil, sprinkled with holy water.

At last I deign to inquire: "What is it, Baroness?"

"The Crown Prince wants to see Your Imperial Highness. May he come in?"

"Since when does my husband send you to announce him?"

"Pardon, Your Imperial Highness, I meant Prince George."

Designating my first-born Prince Royal, means recognizing me as Queen.

And, but ten days ago, this same viper refused to address me by my proper title.

CHAPTER LXIV

THE KING IS ALIVE AND PUNISHMENT NEAR

My queenship postponed – King George publicly acclaimed – Cuts me dead in church – Frederick Augustus's disappointment – Terrible power of a king over his family, and no appeal – I am like the nude witch of old.

Dresden, November 10, 1902.

The King has taken nourishment. The King will not die – he will live and punish me. Still, I must not complain. I had a respite and Richard says, "when one rises from the dead, one is less inclined to be severe with the living." But he grew rather despondent immediately.

"La liberté est une garce, qui ne se laisse monter que sur des matelas des cadavres humains!" he quoted Comte Mirabeau. Our corpse was alive, our liberty is dead for the time being.

Dresden, November 15, 1902.

The King went driving this morning and I am told that he came home well pleased, for there was lusty cheering along the line. Frederick Augustus hasn't mentioned my affair at all. Disappointment made him rather gloomy and he begins to treat me again in the right royal Saxon fashion: I am air for His Highness.

After Supper.

The family will wait upon His Majesty in a body tomorrow, to congratulate him on his recovery. After that, Te Deum in the cathedral, which the court and authorities must attend by command.

"Your Imperial Highness's pew will be in readiness, but my sublime master has not deigned to graciously announce that he wishes to receive Your Imperial Highness," – this from the toad Baumann, who but yesterday licked my boots.

Dresden, November 16, 1902.

Another straw indicating the direction of the wind – the ill-wind.

King George commanded Bernhardt to be madman no longer and come and live in Dresden. Since his arrival he has paid assiduous court to all members of the royal family, but me. He called on the royal ministers, the courtiers, the high civil authorities, but my apartments have seen him not. I don't blame the boy for making the best of the situation, but was it really necessary to offer gratuitous insult to the only relative that stood by him when in trouble?

Doubtless, he took his cue from the King, who cut me dead while, with the rest, I thanked God for his recovery.

November 20, 1902.

The Tisch is openly talking Sonnenstein. "The royal apartments are ready for her reception," she let fall yesterday.

Old Andrew, my confidential servant, told me.

She shows me the face of a bull-dog about to spring at a victim, a sea-green devil filled with vinegar and gall, but affects icy courtesy.

Frederick Augustus is down in the mouth. If he knows of any evil intention against me, he evidently made up his mind to hold his tongue and avoid scenes.

Richard keeps on saying: "Don't worry. After all, what can they do to you?" He doesn't know, or doesn't want to understand that, while the law holds out protection for all, from pedlars and vagabonds to and including prime ministers, royalty itself is only technically above the law; in praxis we are beyond the benefits of all law, human and otherwise.

To be sure, a Cit is sometimes unjustly treated, but with tenacity and a small amount of courage, he finds his remedy in the courts and in the press.

To royal princes and princesses the King is both judge and executioner, as the cases of the Duke of Saxony and Bernhardt show. Maybe it pleases His Majesty to cloak his tyranny by convoking a commission, but what of it, since the commission is invariably made up of his creatures, trained, if not commanded, to do the all-highest will and nothing but the all-highest will?

As in days gone by, the poor "witch" – if she be young and comely – must face her accusers naked, the sworn torturer at her elbow, so I have no standing in law or decency before the Powers over social life or death in our sphere of society.

If there be blemishes in my character, the King sees them magnified by the sharp tongues of evil creatures, his spies. There is no privacy. I must submit to be stared at, to have my flesh lacerated by curious eyes, and, as in the case of the old-time "witches," the handsomest were condemned the quicker because "the devil was more liable to choose them for an abode than ugly ones," so my very beauty will hasten my destruction.

CHAPTER LXV

FISTICUFFS DON'T SAVE MY CROWN

The attempted theft of my Diary – Grand Mistress discovered after breaking open my desk – Reading Diary like mad – Personal encounter between me and Grand Mistress – I am the stronger, and carry off the manuscript, but have to leave all my love letters, which go to the King – I discover that they had stolen the key to my Diary from my neck.

Dresden, November 27, 1902.

I am undone.

They tried to obtain a picture of Louise in the nude– Louise as she paints Herself– this Diary, in fact – and, though I foiled them, the King now has in his hands my entire correspondence – every letter from every man that ever approached or possessed me.

And be sure he won't use them for curl papers as did the Duke of Richelieu with the remnants of his ladyloves' billets doux that escaped confiscation.

"My collection is incomplete. I have to begin another," he said.

Alas, my collection was only too complete!

This is how it came about:

As I was in the act of retiring last night, a clairvoyant's vision seized me. "Somebody meddling with your papers!" "They are breaking into your secrétaire," the voices said.

I slipped on a pair of bath sandals and stealthily opened the door of my boudoir.

My writing desk was open, all the drawers ajar and in disorder; the Baroness bending over this, my Diary. She was reading like mad, her eyes danced with lust of revenge.

With one bound I was at her side and she was so frightened at first, I thought she would drop. Her chest seemed to draw inward; she swayed to and fro. But only for a second or two. Then, recovering her self-possession, her fighting harness was in place again.

"Go to your room, Royal Highness," she said in a tone of command. "These papers are confiscated in the name of the King."

I was beside myself with rage. "My Diary," I cried; "instantly return it to me."

More I couldn't say, for I had neither breath nor voice. My right hand was on the book when she attempted to seize it.

I struck her hand with Richard's ring – I wish it was bigger, I wish it had a good diamond point – but she wouldn't let go. Then, before one could count one, two, three, I had hold of her – Heaven, how I enjoyed it; the satisfaction I had in giving rein to my passion, for all was up now, anyhow.

With the left hand I caught her by the throat, while my good right boxed her ears after the homely manner mamma had taught me. Good, sound cuffs, I assure you, each liable to dislocate a tooth.

"Canaille," I cried, "miserable canaille." I pushed her into a corner and recovered the Diary, folding it up quickly. I was holding the book close to my bosom when I crossed the room to regain my bedchamber.

The Tisch after me, trying to snatch it back. I caught her on the chest and sent her flying. Then, with the manuscript, I made good my escape, leaving for the contemptible bird of prey all my love letters, reams of them, the oldest fifteen or more years old, the latest bearing yesterday's date.

Once in my room, I recollected and made a grab at my throat. The key to my Diary was gone. They stole it, chain and all, while I was asleep, no doubt.

Dresden, November 28, 1902.

Awakening, I find myself seated at the little table near the window. Both my hands are ink-spotted. So is my night-dress.

I see, I have written an account of the battle. I must have done so some time after I returned from the field. It's well, for at the moment, I don't remember a thing.

The palace clock strikes seven.

The day of my doom.

CHAPTER LXVI

ABANDONED

My titled servants withdraw from me – An old footman my sole support – Queen takes the children – Old Andrew plays spy for me.

Afternoon.

No one has come to see me. My household, my adjutants, marshal, chamberlains, equerries, the ladies of my entourage are on duty, but since I ordered my meals brought to the room, they pretend to assume that I'm too ill to see anyone. There may be no truth in the saying that rats leave the ship destined to sink, but the titled vermin royalty surrounds itself with certainly knows when to avoid dangerous craft.

I rang for Andrew. The good, old man wouldn't put me to the humiliation of asking questions.

"Your Imperial Highness's children are with Her Majesty," he said; and, coming a step nearer, he added in an undertone: "Baroness Tisch has been with His Majesty since nine in the morning."

"You are a kind and brave man." I held out my hand.

"If Your Imperial Highness has no immediate orders for me," continued the good soul, "I beg to be allowed to visit my friend, Hans, the King's body-servant."

I thanked Andrew for his good intentions. "Wait in the ante-chamber until I am dressed."

I donned a forty-mark costume that I keep on hand for the purpose; it didn't take me more than six or seven minutes.

"I will have to leave by the secret staircase, Andrew."

He understood and cleared the way for me.

CHAPTER LXVII

FAMILY COUNCIL AT CASTLE

Rendezvous at studio – State takes my children from me – Madhouse or flight – I brought fifty-two trunks to the palace – Depart with small satchel – If I attempt to see my children I'll be seized as "mad woman" – Varying emotions of the last ten minutes – Threatening shadows thrown on a curtain decide me – Ready for flight – Diary the last thing to go into the satchel.

At Night. Eleven O'clock.

They went into family council at six tonight and are still deliberating, Andrew reports. The Tisch, he says, acts as secretary; His Majesty, of course, presides.

Present are the Dowager Queen, Mathilde and Isabelle. Then Frederick Augustus, Johann George, Max and Bernhardt. Baron George von Metzsch, a high government and court functionary and my enemy, attends as legal adviser to the King.

It's in the nature of things that the Baron will do his worst to destroy me, but Bernhardt! Bernhardt, who held me in his arms, now one of my judges! He will have to be especially severe with his quondam mistress lest the King suspect.

While the sweet family bent over those love letters – I bet the Tisch withheld Henry's – I sat in Richard's studio, advising with him.

"There are only two things to be considered: the madhouse or instant flight."

"You dare advise me to leave my children?"

"There are no nurseries in madhouses. Your children are lost to you, anyhow. If you remain, as an alleged insane person, you 'can't be trusted,' they'll argue, for you are helpless, legally, morally and physically.

"If you run away to Switzerland, on the other hand, you are a free woman, under the protection of a republican government.

"Switzerland, I needn't tell you, will not go to war to wrest your children from the royal family, but will afford you personally every advantage, legal and otherwise.

"Decide quickly: are you going to make King George a present of yourself as well as of the five children you bore for the benefit of the Wettiners?"

"Never."

My mind is made up. My few belongings are packed. I, who came to Dresden with fifty-two trunks, leave the palace with a satchel, easy to carry. I take nothing but my personal jewels, the little money I own and some changes of linen.

If I could only see my children for a moment or two, but the Queen has them in her keeping, and I might be seized as a "mad woman" if I dared leave my apartments and cross to those occupied by Her Majesty.

And Frederick Augustus! He will miss me in his way.

Ten more minutes. I hear the distant clatter of a carriage. Richard driving to our rendezvous, two streets north of the palace gate.

Will my limbs carry me to him and liberty? I pace the room to test their strength.

"Louise," says the voice within, – "your last chance. Your good-natured husband, your darling children, your old parents, pomp and state and circumstance, indeed, a crown, you are going to abandon for – what?"

A man whose carnal side only you know, a poor man, an artist without fame, a professional without future.

Sadly perturbed in mind, I walk to the window. Those of His Majesty's cabinet, where the family council is in progress, are directly opposite.

Shadows of men and women, rising from a sitting position, are thrown on the curtains.

One of the shades slowly ascends.

I see the Tisch pointing a bony finger to the windows of my boudoir. Von Metzsch stands by her side. They grin.

You triumph, wretch and Jezebel?

But when your sbirri, in an hour from now, or tomorrow morning early, invade my rooms, instructed to carry me away – bound hand and foot to a sofa, or in a straight jacket, perhaps – they will find the Crown Princess gone – her and her Diary.

Both will be safe on foreign soil ere you can make arrangements for organized pursuit, for Richard and I will travel by carriage to a distant suburb, there mount the fast express and keep to our state room, engaged under an assumed name, until without the sphere of Saxon or German influence.

A discreet knock. Andrew, my liberator! In his hand a tallow dip to light this Imperial Highness down back stairs to the new life of her choice.

"One moment, old man, this book goes into the valise.

"Hand me the blotter, please. Tears won't do.

"And a couple more handkerchiefs from the top of the chiffonier, please."

FINIS

1

"Be civil, good people, I am the English hure," said Nell Gwyn, addressing a London mob that threatened to storm her carriage, assuming that its occupant was the hated Frenchwoman.

2

"Your biography give a faithful portrait of self," said Fontenelle, the famous French Academician, to an 18th Century Marquise, "but I miss the record of your gallantries."

"Ah, Monsieur, c'est que je ne me suis peinte qu'en buste!" replied her ladyship.

3

The Prince of Wales' revenue is derived from the Duchy of Cornwall, amounting to about half a million dollars per year.

4

The same who afterwards became the Queen of King Alexander of Servia and eventually the cause of his death and of the extinction of the Obrenovitsch dynasty. Alexander and Draga were both slaughtered in their beds May 29, 1903, ten years after the above was written.

5

Joanna I, Queen of Naples, a pupil of Petrarca and in many respects an enlightened ruler. She issued the first laws and regulations regarding prostitutes. Hanged by order of King Louis of Hungary, after her defeat in battle, July, 1381.

6

The fortune of the present King of Saxony (Louise's ex-husband) amounts to 25 million marks ($6,225,000) – no more than many an American parent paid for his daughter's seedy coronet. It will be remembered that Gladys Vanderbilt and Anna Gould brought to their husbands fifteen million dollars each, and the Castellanes and Szechenys are only nobles of the second class, their ancestors never having possessed ever so small a territory as sovereign lords. The bigger half of the Saxon King's fortune comes from the Brunswick inheritance already mentioned.

7

Queens seem to like this unseemly comparison:

"Am I a kennel-dog in the estimation of the Bastard of England?" cried Mary of Scots, when Queen Elizabeth refused her safe-conduct through England upon her departure from France (Summer 1561).

8

"Illuminated" is the proper title for German counts of the higher class.