Secret Memoirs: The Story of Louise, Crown Princess

"Of course he would prefer a pair of kettledrums," said my cousin Bernhardt of Weimar, to whom I am indebted for the above.

"Kettledrums?" I asked.

"I mean those the Grand Dauphin, called 'Son of a king, father of a king, never a king,' was so fond of, and which he finally married in secret."

I looked bewildered.

"You are a very ignorant girl," said Bernhardt. "Never heard of the prodigious bosoms of Mademoiselle Chouin?"

"They won't let the Duke marry?" I queried.

"Not even temporarily," said Bernhardt. "And they are trying the same game on me. My garrison – a dung-heap. The people there, males and females, entirely unacquainted with soap and water. Nothing in the world to do but drink and gamble."

"That reminds me. What are you doing in Dresden?"

"With Your Imperial Highness's permission, I came to see my girl."

"Who is the lady?"

"No lady at all. Just an ordinary servant-wench, but prettier and more devilish than a hundred of them."

"Bernhardt!"

"What would you have me do, Louise? I haven't money enough to keep a mistress, and King and Queen certainly won't keep one for me. I wish I had lived a hundred and fifty years ago, when every lady of the court was expected to entertain the royal princes, the Palace footing the bill."

CHAPTER XXXII

PRINCE GEORGE SHOWN THE DOOR BY GRAND-DUCHESS MELITA

A royal lady who walks her garden attired in a single diaphanous garment – Won't stand for any meddling – Called impertinent – My virtuous indignation assumed – A flirtation at a distance – An audacious lover – The Grand Mistress hoodwinked – Matrimonial horns for Kaiser – The banished Duke dies – Princes scolded like school-boys.

Dresden, February 5, 1896.

At last Prince George got his deserts, and got 'em good and heavy. There had been rumors for some time that Grand-duke Ernest Ludwig and his bride, Victoria Melita of Saxe-Coburg, the English branch, didn't get along together. Ernest Ludwig is a serious-minded, modest and intelligent man, but a good deal of a sissy. Victoria Melita is a spit-fire, very good-looking and anxious to let people know about it. She rides horseback and fences to show off her figure, and someone called her a Centaur.

"Be in the palace gardens tomorrow at eleven," answered Melita, "and you will be convinced that I am not half-horse, even if my husband is a ninny."

She kept the rendezvous, attired in a single garment of diaphanous texture.

When Prince George heard that she had a lover, he went to Darmstadt to "correct her," as he expressed himself with much self-satisfaction.

But Victoria Melita proved to him that English princesses are made of sterner stuff than the German variety.

"I will have none of your meddling," said the bride of two years.

"I came here to make peace between you people."

"Play the dove to your daughter-in-law," quoth the Grand-duchess. "I hear you are fighting like Kilkenny cats."

"You are impertinent, Madame," cried George furiously.

"You will oblige me by showing this man the door," demanded Victoria Melita, addressing her husband.

"Not until I have explained the situation," answered Ernest Ludwig quietly. "Listen, then, cousin! While I am by principle opposed to divorce, I won't force my wife to live with me."

"And now be so kind as to withdraw," said Victoria Melita, opening the door for Prince George. Poor as I am, I would have given five thousand marks to have seen the meddling pest exit in that fashion, and I love Victoria Melita for the spirit she displayed, even if I don't approve of her liaisons.

Dresden, February 10, 1896.

A mighty virtuous remark escaped me on the last page, and I almost feel like asking the Grand-duchess's pardon, for, whatever I am, I'm no hypocrite. Melita is said to have a lover; I have an admirer. Up to now I don't care a rap for him, but who knows?

It's Count Bielsk of the Roumanian Embassy. I can't remember whether he was ever introduced to me. Most probably he was, but I forgot.

An elegant fellow – always looks as if he stepped out of a tailor's shop in Piccadilly.

Every single night I go to the theatre the Count occupies an orchestra chair that affords the best possible view of the royal box. It happened too often and too persistently to be accidental. Moreover, I observe that he pays no attention to the play. He has eyes for me only.

Impertinence? Decidedly, but I can't be angry with the fellow. On the contrary, I am flattered, and the kind face and the fine eyes he's got!

Poor stupid Tisch doesn't approve of the theatre, of course, and usually begs to be excused on the plea of religious duties. "What a sinner you must be," I sometimes say, "when you are obliged to forever bother God with prayers."

The Schoenberg I send into the next box, for she is no spy and never watches me. But if I must take Tisch, I always command her to sit behind me. Etiquette forbids her the front of the box and from the rear she can see only the stage.

What fun to carry on a flirtation right under the nose of that acrid-hearted, snivelling bigot, who would mortgage part of the eternal bliss she promises herself for a chance to catch me at it!

Am I flirting, then?

To spite the Tisch I would plant horns on the very Kaiser.

April 1, 1896.

The Duke of Saxony is dead – the man who at one time offered violence to His Majesty. Bernhardt was mistaken; he left a wife and three children. Of course, no recognized wife. Just the woman he married. Unless you are of the blood-royal, you won't see the difference, but that is no concern of mine.

Novels and story books have a good deal to say on the subject of inheritance-fights among the lowly. Greed, hard-heartedness, close-fistedness, treachery, cheating all around! See what will happen to the Duke's widow and her little ones.

According to the house laws, a regular pirate's code, his late Highness's fortune reverts to the family treasury. Prince Johann George will derive the revenues from the real estate the Duke owned privately. He is already rich, – sufficient reason for his wanting more. I shudder when I think what they will do to the woman the Duke married.

The most notable thing about the funeral was the "calling down" Prince Bernhardt got.

"You will go to my valet and ask him to lend you one of my helmets. Yours is not the regulation form, I see," said the King to him in the voice of a drill-sergeant. And Bernhardt had to take to his heels like a school-boy caught stealing apples.

I had to laugh when I observed the meeting between my erstwhile admirer, the Prince of Bulgaria, and His Majesty.

Ferdinand's broad chest was ablaze with orders and decorations, but his valet had forgotten to pin onto him the Cross of the Rautenkrone, the Royal Saxe House decoration. There were plenty of others, but the King had eyes only for the one not dangling from a green ribbon. Consequently, Ferdinand, though a sovereign Prince, got only one "How art thou?" If we were living in the eighteenth, instead of the nineteenth, century, his valet's neglect would constitute a prime cause for war between the two countries.

CHAPTER XXXIII

MELITA'S LOVE AFFAIRS AND MINE

The Grand Duchess tells me how she cudgeled George – Living dictaphone employed – Shows him who is mistress of the house – Snaps fingers in Prince George's face – Debate about titles – "A sexless thing of a husband" – Conference between lover and husband – Grand Duke doesn't object to his wife's lover, but lover objects to "his paramour being married."

Dresden, April 15, 1896.

Melita conducted herself at the funeral and in our palace as unconcernedly as if she and George were fast friends. She smiled every time she saw him, and he cut her dead to his heart's content. During the three days' stay of the Hesses, I had many a good talk and many a good laugh with Melita, and now I got a true and unabridged record of what happened at Darmstadt during George's meddling visit there.

The Grand-duchess, who can be as catty as they make 'em, had her secretary sit behind a screen to take stenographic notes.

Saxon kings and princes always roar and bellow when, in conversation or otherwise, things go against their "all-highest" grain. As soon as George felt that he was losing ground, he began to bark and yell, whereupon Melita interrupted him by saying, "I beg you to take notice that you are in my house."

George grew so red in the face, Melita hoped for an apoplectic fit. But after a few seconds he managed to blurt out: "It's your husband's house."

"While I am Grand-duchess of Hesse it's my house, too. Moreover, this is my room and I forbid you to play the ruffian here."

Prince George looked at the Grand-duke, but Ernest Ludwig said nothing.

"I am here as the King's representative. I represent the chief of the Royal House of Saxony."

"A fig for your Royal House of Saxony," said Melita, snapping her fingers in George's face. "Queen Victoria is my chief of family, and, that aside, Ludwig and I are sovereigns in Hesse and have no intention whatever to allow anyone – "

"Anyone?" repeated George aghast. "You refer to me as anyone?"

"In things matrimonial," said Melita, "only husband and wife count; all others are 'anyone.' You, too."

"She calls me 'you,'" cried George, white with rage, looking helplessly at Ernest Ludwig. When the latter kept his tongue and temper, George addressed himself to Melita once more.

"I want you to understand that my title is Royal Highness."

"And I want you to understand that I am Her Royal Highness the Grand-duchess of Hesse, Royal Princess of Great Britain and Ireland, Duchess of Saxony," cried Melita, stamping her foot.

With that she went to the door, opened it and said, "I request Your Royal Highness to leave my house this very second."

And George went.

Dresden, June 1, 1896.

Poor virtuous me, to chide myself, and call myself names for flirting with Count Bielsk – at a distance of twenty feet or more! "I could kick my back," as the Duc de Richelieu – not the Cardinal, but the lover of the Regent's daughters and "every wife's husband" – used to say (only a bit more grossly) when I think what I miss in this dead-alive Dresden.

Darmstadt isn't half as big a town, and the Hesse establishment doesn't compare with ours in magnitude, but what fun Melita is having!

Of course, it isn't all fun, for her husband is a "sexless" thing, and, like the Grand-duchess Serge of Russia, she would be a virgin, though married for years, if it wasn't for the other.

"The other" is none other but Kyril, the lover of our Dolores, – Kyril isn't exactly pining away when separated from Melita.

Well, Melita wants him all to herself. She wants a divorce. The complacent husband, who is no husband at all, doesn't suit her. Exit Ernest Ludwig – officially. Enter Kyril – legitimately.

She made me reams of confidences, indulged in whole brochures of dissertations on the question of sex. What an ignoramus I am! I didn't understand half she said and was ashamed to ask.

Ernest Ludwig is the most accommodating of husbands. Knows all about Kyril and would gladly shut both eyes if they let him. Melita might, if pressed very hard, for adultery has no terrors for her, but Kyril affects the idealist. Sure sign that he really loves her. If he was mine, I would be afraid of this Kyril. No doubt he is jealous as a Turk.

Last week the three of them had a conference. Lovely to see husband, wife and paramour "in peaceful meeting assembled" and talk over the situation as if it concerned the Royal stud or something of the sort.

No recriminations, no threats, no heroics; only when Ernest Ludwig submitted that divorce be avoided to save his face as a sovereign, Kyril got a bit excited.

"This is not a question of politics," he said, "or what the dear public thinks. Your wife don't want you; as a matter of fact, she isn't your wife, and since we are in love with each other, we ought to marry."

"Marry, marry, why always marry?" demanded the Grand-duke. "I acknowledge that I haven't the right to interfere in my wife's pleasure – I am not built that way. Well, I don't interfere. What more do you want? You don't deny that I am the chief person to be considered."

"You?" mocked Kyril. "You with your sovereignty are not in it at all. If it wasn't for you, Melita and I could marry and say no more about it."

"But I don't prevent your enjoyment of each other," pleaded the ruler of the Hessians.

Now the idealistic Kyril got on his high horse. "Grand-duke," he said, "if you don't object to your wife having a lover, that's your business. For my part, I object to my paramour having a husband."

And so on ad infinitum, and a goose like me abuses herself for a bit of goo-goo-eyeing.

CHAPTER XXXIV

MORE ABOUT THE SWEET ROYAL FAMILY LIFE

"Closed season" for petty meannesses – A prince who enjoys himself like a pig – Why princes learn trades – A family dinner to the accompaniment of threats and smashing of table – The Duke's widow and children robbed of their inheritance by royal family – King confiscates testament.

Loschwitz, September 13, 1896.

They are treating me like a laying hen. Expect another golden egg in December. Hence, "closed season" for imperious commands, "all-highest" orders and petty meannesses.

When I learned that Bernhardt was in Dresden, I phoned him to come out and see me – without asking either royal, princely, or the Tisch's permission.

A junior prince, without fortune or high protector, is really to be pitied. His title, the vague possibility that some day he may be called to the throne, stand between him and enjoyment of life as a man. Nothing left, but to enjoy himself like a pig.

Bernhardt admits it. "They planted me in the God-forsakenest hole in the kingdom. If I saw a pretty woman in my garrison from one year's end to the other, I would die of joy. And the newspaper scribblers wonder why we are all Oscar Wildes.

"Just to kill time, I am learning the carpenter's trade – this Royal Highness, you must know, lives in a carpenter's house, as innocent of sanitary arrangements as a Bushman's hut. Of course, I run away every little while to Dresden, incog. to pay my respects to Venus.

"Louise," he cried with comic emphasis, "may the three hours you steal from my girl, by way of this visit, be deducted from your eternal beatitude."

I lent the poor fellow five hundred marks and he rushed back to Dresden.

Tonight I told Frederick Augustus of my interview with Bernhardt, not mentioning the five hundred, of course.

He laughed. "He's no worse than the rest of us used to be," he said. "I did exactly like him, and father and uncle and brothers and cousins, ditto. Behold – your husband-locksmith! Max spent all his time reading the Lives of the Popes. That made him the dried-up mummy he is. But, believe me, I gave the girls many a treat. All the money I could beg, borrow or steal went for girls."

Which explains Frederick Augustus's bedroom manners – sometime transplanted to the parlor.

Dresden, January 1, 1897.

I gave Saxony a third prince on December 9, and really I wasn't quite in condition to be scolded at today's family dinner. But since, with three boys growing up, the succession is more than guaranteed, the season for insults is again open.

His Majesty, our most gracious, sublime, etc., sovereign, sulks. Consequently the family looks glum, down in the mouth, utterly unhappy.

Max gets up to make a speech and one could fairly see the lies wriggle out of his mouth full of defective teeth: exemplary family life; traditional friendship of all members for each other; perfect unity; the King and all the princes brave as lions; the Queen and all the princesses paragons of virtue. And the fatherly love with which the King embraces us all; his more than royal generosity; his mildness, his Christian virtues!

The Queen is a goose. Max's lying commonplaces make her forget her many years of misery spent at this court, and she grows as sentimental as a kitten. Fat Mathilda, Isabelle and Johann George applaud Max despite their better understanding, and now the King rises to make his usual New Year's address.

The gist of his long-winded remarks is this: "I am the lord, your master, and I will see to it that you – wife, brother, nephews and nieces – will dance as I whistle.

"For obedience to the King is the highest law," he paraphrases Wilhelm, – "strictest, unconditional obedience" (and he gave me a poisoned look) "and let no one forget it, no one." With that he beat the table with his clenched fist, and the whole assemblage turns an accusing eye on me.

Dresden, April 6, 1897.

They have driven the late Duke of Saxony's wife and children from house and home – put her on the high-road, piling her personal belongings, trunks, wardrobe and knick-knacks outside, too.

She arrived in Dresden and sought refuge with her widowed mother. Her father, a Court-Councillor, dismissed because of the relations between the Duke and his daughter, died of grief and mortification, almost penniless. And the Ducal widow is as poor as the mother – and three children to bring up! Children of the royal blood of Saxony, children sanctioned by the Church of which they prate so much, for there is no doubt that the pair married in secret.

The late Highness kept all his papers in a strong-box, and it's said the King's representative, who searched the safe by Royal orders, found neither acknowledgment of the marriage, nor a last will in favor of the widow and children. Hence, all the Duke's belongings revert to the royal family, and the estate he lived on goes to his next of kin, Johann George.

Johann George, who has more money than he knows what to do with, promptly sent the bailiff after his cousin's wife and children.

"Noblesse oblige, – the way you interpret the old saying, will advance the cause of monarchy immensely," I said to the official heir.

"Is it any business of mine to support my relatives' mistresses?" I saw he was mad clean through.

"You know very well that she was his wife."

"There is apparently no official record of the marriage."

"Maybe not in Dresden, as the nuptials were solemnized abroad. But what about the testament?"

Johann George grew very red in the face. "If there is one, the King must have confiscated it. That often happens in royal houses."

"And you mean to say that, with all your riches, you are heartless enough and contemptible enough – "

"Take a care, Your Imperial Highness. The Duke's strumpet was today indicted for lèse majesté in connection with the testament matter." This junior prince dared to speak thus to me, the Crown Princess.

"Johann George," I cried, "forget not that sooner or later I will be at the head of the royal family of Saxony. I forbid you to introduce your mess-room jargon into my parlor; at the same time I am sincerely sorry that a Prince of Saxony should stoop to buy cigarettes and gasoline with the pittance stolen from his cousin's widow and her three little children."

I went to the door and told the lackey on duty to fetch his Royal Highness's carriage.

CHAPTER XXXV

FLIRTATION DEVELOPS INTO LOVE

At the theatre – My adorer must have felt my presence – Forgot his diplomacy – The mute salute – His good looks – His mouth a promise of a thousand sweet kisses – Our love won't be any painted business.

Dresden, April 6, Night, 1897.

The talk with Johann George had excited me so, I wanted a diversion. Frederick Augustus sent word that he wouldn't be home for dinner. Hence, I decided to go to the theatre after an absence of months. It was after six when I telephoned that I would occupy my box at the Royal Opera. If I should see Him there, in the absence of announcements in the newspapers!

He was there. In his usual seat. I won't rest until I find out how he manages to get wind of my theatrical ventures at such short notice. The Opera, Faust, had been in progress for ten minutes when I arrived. I espied him at once, but kept well behind the curtains of the box for a second or two. Then, suddenly, I dropped into the gilded armchair and the very same moment our eyes met.

I am sure he expected me; he must have known I was near when I entered the house. To his ears the hundred and one melodies of Gounod's masterpiece were naught compared with the music of my silken skirts.

He was so overcome, he forgot his diplomacy. Twice he pressed his right hand to his heart, then bowed his head in a mute salute.

Fortunately the house was dark at the time and the audience, unacquainted with my visit, paid strict attention to the stage. No one but him saw my heart leap within me and the blood mount to my cheeks. Presently his diplomatic tact got the upper hand again, and he fixed his eyes on the score. That afforded me the chance to take a pictorial inventory of my lover-at-a-distance. I used my opera-glasses unmercifully.

He's a fine looking man – if he were a woman he would be hailed a beauty. His forehead is a dream of loveliness; his mouth a promise of a thousand sweet kisses.

If this man wants me, I mean if he wants me badly, our love won't be any painted business, I assure you.

Dresden, April 25, 1897.

Ball at the Roumanian Embassy. Royal command to attend.

As if it needed a command to throw me into the arms of Bielsk.

CHAPTER XXXVI

COUNT BIELSK MAKES LOVE TO THE CROWN PRINCESS

Fearless to indiscretion – He "thou's" me – Puts all his chances on one card – Proposes a rendezvous – Shall I go or shall I not go? – Peril if I go and peril if I don't.

Dresden, April 26, 1897, Night.

We went to the ball as His Majesty's representatives, Frederick Augustus and I, and were obliged to say a few nothingnesses to a hundred paltry persons or more. When the Ambassador introduced Count Bielsk, I said in the most careless voice of the world, "I hear you love the theatre, Count."

"I don't care a rap for the theatre," he replied. "I go to opera and operetta simply to see you, Imperial Highness."

Such audacity! And he spoke quite loud.

Frightened, I turned to the next person presented, saying something imbecile, no doubt.

Later I withdrew upon the dais to watch the dancing, and at a moment when I was quite alone, he came up to me, making it appear as if I had commanded his attendance.

"I have much to say to Your Imperial Highness."

I didn't have my wits about me and didn't know how to act. He repeated twice or oftener: "Pray, Your Imperial Highness, I have something to say to you," until, at last, I threw etiquette to the winds and asked:

"Why should you wish to talk to me in private, Count?" No royal woman indulging in lovers ever encouraged a rogue more carelessly.

"Because my life and happiness depend on what I have to say to you."

And, weaker still, I assented by the tone of my voice rather than words: "You make me curious, Count. Whatever you have to say, say it now."

He raised his eyes to me, with a soul and reputation-destroying look. "Thanks!" Then wildly, clamorously: "Louise, I love you."

Instinctively I thought of flight, but his eyes wouldn't let me rise. From that moment on he dropped my title.

"Stay," he whispered, "I beseech you, stay. Don't you see that I love you to distraction? I have kept silent these many months. Now I must talk. I love thee, Louise."

I tried in vain to collect my thoughts while his love talk fanned my blood. Finally I managed to say: "Can't you see that you are playing va banque?"

"I know, but it doesn't interest me. Let my career be wrecked, I care not; I've got only one thought in the world – thee, only one wish – thee. And I must either love thee or die."

I turned my eyes away and rose abruptly. As he bowed to kiss my hand, he whispered, still "thou'ing" me: "I expect you tomorrow at the end of the Grand Boulevard. Come when you please. I will wait all day."

And here I am thinking, thinking, thinking.

"The end of the Boulevard" is the beginning of Dresden's Bois. Does this madman really suppose that Her Imperial Highness, the Crown Princess of this kingdom, will lower herself and respond to his demand for a rendezvous?