It pains me to think that the king of Bavaria, or any other fine-looking
young gentleman, would deliberately scowl at an inoffensive party of
ladies who were, one and all, only too pleased to have the opportunity
of gazing smilingly at him. But the truth is, he did. The way it
happened is this. We and the king of Bavaria are at present travelling
in the North Tyrol. But he cannot have wanted so much as we to go to the
South Tyrol, which is bolder and grander, or he would have gone there,
not being bound by petty considerations of convenience and expense like
ordinary tourists. At a little inn, "Auf der Ferne," between Innsbruck
and Reutte, in a place called Fernstein, by a lake named Fernsee (and
also "The Three Lakes," because the land juts out on one side in two
long points, making three pretty coves where the tranquil water meets
the soft green shores), the post-wagon halted, that our postilion might
drink his glass of native wine. There were numerous servants in
blue-and-silver livery at the door, and we were told King Louis was
driving in the neighborhood, and that we would certainly meet him. While
we were waiting, the people regaled us with tales of the young king's
eccentricities. Some of his extravagant fancies remind one of the
Arabian Nights, or old fairy-tales, more than of anything in these
latter days. He usually travels by night, for instance, and sleeps, the
little that he ever sleeps, mornings. He drives fast through the
darkness, servants with torches galloping in advance, stopping here and
there only long enough for a change of horses, his own horses and
servants being in readiness for him at the different inns along the
route. Often his carriage dashes up to this inn, "Auf der Ferne," at
twelve o'clock at night, and then this deliciously eccentric being is
rowed across the little Fernsee to a tiny island, where he partakes, by
the romantic gleam of torches, of a feast prepared by French cooks.
Rowed back to the shore, he starts again with fresh horses and goes
swiftly on, through the night, to some other inn, where the noise of his
arrival awakens all the sleepers.
We heard him later ourselves at two in the morning at an inn on the road
where we were staying, and in fact were told by the landlord that he was
expected; were shown the sacred apartment set apart for his majesty, who
now and then sits an hour in it at some unearthly time of night, and we
were advised to peep through our curtains at him, his suite, and his
horses, torches, etc.; but such was the sleepiness created by a ride of
sixteen hours in mountain air, that, though we were dimly conscious
something of interest was happening, I do not think we would have been
able to stir, to see even Solomon in all his glory. This was the true
reason, but the one that we pretended actuated us is quite different. We
remark with dignity that no young woman of proper spirit will condescend
to peep through a curtain at a man who has scowled at her, king or no
king.
But I must tell you how, when, and where the royal scowl took place. We
had left the little inn by the lake, and were riding along in an
expectant mood, when there came a great clatter of hoofs, and two
blue-and-silver men dashed by followed by an open carriage, where King
Louis sat alone. A kind fate ordained that the road should be narrow at
this point, with a steep bank on one side, over which it would not be
pleasant to be precipitated; so the royal coachman, as well as our
driver, moderated the speed of his horses, and we therefore had an
admirable opportunity to see this "_idealisch_" young man--as the
Germans call him--distinctly. The ceremonies performed were few. Our
postilion took off his hat; so did the king. Then it seemed good in his
sight to deliberately throw back his head, look full in our amiable,
smiling, interested countenances, and indulge in a haughty and an
unmistakable scowl. He must have slept even less than usual that
morning. We were not accustomed to have young men scowl at us, and
really felt quite hurt. If he had looked grand and unseeing, had gazed
off abstractedly upon the mountain-tops, we would have been delighted
with him. As it is, we cannot honestly say that we consider his manner
to strangers ingratiating. Still, as the melancholy fact is that he
hates women, his scowl probably meant no especial aversion to our humble
selves, but was merely the expression of the immense scorn and disgust
he feels towards the sex at large.
In revenge, I hasten to say that, though he certainly has a
distinguished air, and a fine head, and the great eyes that look so
dreamy and poetical in the photographs of him at eighteen or twenty, he
is not nearly so handsome as those early pictures. Perhaps he can look
dreamy still; but of this he granted us no opportunity to judge, and he
has grown stout, and has lost the delicate refinement of his youth.
This road to Reutte is one of the finest of the mountain-passes between
the Tyrol and Bavaria. The deep, wooded ravines, lovely, dark-green
lakes, and noble heights make the landscape very beautiful and
inspiring. Near Lennos, you see on the east great bald limestone
precipices, the snowy Zugspitze, 9,761 feet high, the Schneefernerkopf,
9,462 feet, and other peaks of 8,000 feet and more; while you spy
picturesque ruins, old hunting-seats, and fortresses here and there high
on the proud cliffs.
Reutte has large, broad, pretty houses. It is said laughingly that there
is not a house in the place which a king or some other exalted being has
not selected to die in, or in some way to make memorable.
From this place we have pursued still farther our studies of royalty,
having met with so much encouragement at the outset. We have visited the
Schloss Hohenschwangau, where the king of Bavaria and his mother, the
queen, spend some time every summer; and also Schloss Schwanstein, which
is yet building, but where the young king often stays, unfinished as it
is.
The way to Hohenschwangau leads through a charming park. The castle was
once a Roman fort, they say, then a baronial estate, then almost
destroyed by the Tyrolese, then bought by King Max of Bavaria, who had
it remodelled and ornamented with fine frescos by Munich artists.
In the vestibule is an inscription in gold letters on blue, which says
something like this:--
"Welcome, wanderer,--welcome, fair and gracious women!
Leave all care behind!
Yield your souls to the sweet influences of poetry."
Isn't that a pretty greeting? It's all very well, however, to have such
things written on your walls, and then to go about the world scowling at
people; but it doesn't look consistent. From the vestibule you pass into
a long hall, where are two rows of columns, old suits of armor standing
like men on guard on both sides, shields, spears, halberds, and
cross-bows on the walls, and a little chapel at the end.
The frescos throughout the castle are very interesting. From the
billiard-room, with a pretty balcony, you go into the Schwanrittersaal,
where the pictures on the walls represent the legend of the Knight of
the Swan, and remind you of the opera of "Lohengrin." The painted glass
of the doors opening from this room upon a balcony is of the seventeenth
century.
There is an Oriental room, with reminiscences of King Max's Eastern
travels. Here you see Smyrna, Troja, the Dardanelles, Constantinople, in
fresco; rich presents from the Sultan, a table-cover embroidered by the
wives of the Sultan, jewelled fans, etc.
There is an Autharis room, with frescos by Schwind, telling the story of
the wooing of the Princess Theudelinda by the Lombard king, Autharis. Do
you feel perfectly familiar with the history of Autharis and
Theudelinda? Because, if you do not, I don't really know of any one just
at this moment who feels competent to give you the slightest information
upon the subject.
There is a room of the knights, the frescos illustrating mediaeval
chivalry,--a Charlemagne room. There are, in fact, more rooms than you
care to read about or I care to describe, and many rich objects to see.
In the queen's apartments was a casket of gold studded with turquoises
and rubies; elegant toilet-tables rosy with silk linings, soft with
falling lace; and there is one dear little balcony-room, cosy and full
of familiar pictures,--Raphael's cherubs, a little painting of Edelweiss
and Alpine roses; and actually two real spinning-wheels: one is the
queen's, and the other belonged to a young court lady whose recent death
was a deep grief to the queen, it is said.
But the most striking, and in the end fascinating, thing in the castle
is the number of swans you see. It would be difficult to convey any idea
of the swan-atmosphere of this place. Swans support baskets for flowers
and vases. There are swans in china, in marble, in alabaster, in gold
and silver, on the tables, on the mantels and brackets, painted,
embroidered on cushions and footstools,--everywhere you find them. A
half-dozen of different sizes stand together on a small table, some of
them large, some as tiny as the toy swan a child sails in his glass
preserve-dish for a pond. There is a swan-fountain in the garden; a
great swan on the stove in a reception-room.
King Louis can bathe every day in a gold bath-tub if he wishes. Our eyes
have seen it, though the guide said he had never shown it before. I have
no means of knowing whether the man told the truth. There is another and
yet more enticing bath-room hewn out of the solid rock. We entered it
from the garden. From without, its walls look like dark thick glass,
through which one sees absolutely nothing. From within, the effect is
enchanting. You see the highest tower of the castle on one side rising
directly above you, the lovely garden with its choice flowers and superb
trees, the grand mountains beyond,--and all bathed in a deep rosy light
from the hue of the glass. It is an enchanted grotto, and very Arabian
Nights-ish. A marble nymph stands on each side of the bath, which is cut
in the centre of the stone floor, and one of them turns on a pivot,
disclosing a concealed niche, into which you step and slowly swing round
until you are in a subterranean passage, from which a mysterious
stairway leads to the dressing-room above.
We went everywhere, even into the king's little study, up in the tower,
where we were explicitly told not to go. It was a simply furnished room,
with an ordinary writing-table, upon which papers and writing-materials
were strewn about, and important-looking envelopes directed to the king.
And it commanded a lovely view of mountains, broad plains, and four
lakes, the Alpsee, Schwansee, Hopfensee, and Bannwaldsee.
Our little tour of inspection was just in time, for at twelve that
night, the castle servants told us, the king would come dashing up to
his own door, after which there can be of course no admittance to
visitors.
Hohenschwangau is most beautifully situated, but the Neu Schwanstein is
still more striking. It is founded upon a rock. You climb to reach it,
and you can climb far higher on the mountains that tower behind it. It
stands directly by a deep ravine, and the view from it is magnificent.
The young king here by his own hearthstone has wild and abrupt mountain
scenery,--a rocky gorge, crossed by a delicate wire bridge, an impetuous
waterfall; and looking far, far off from the battlements he sees
villages, many lakes, dense woods, winding streams, Hohenschwangau
looking proudly towards its royal neighbor, and the glorious mountains
circling and guarding the valley. Living here, one would feel like a god
on high Olympus looking down upon humanity toiling on the plains below.
The king likes this place, and it is said wishes to remain here when the
queen, his mother, comes to Hohenschwangau. But this is an unwarrantable
intrusion upon their little family differences, which they should enjoy
unmolested, like you and me. Schwanstein in its exterior form and
character resembles a mediaeval castle, and the appointments in the
servants' wing, the only part of the interior as yet finished, are
strictly in keeping. There are solid oaken benches and tables, carved
cases and chests, oaken bedsteads as simply made as possible, and
windows with tiny oval or diamond panes.
The room occupied temporarily by the king is very small and simple,--has
a plain oak bedstead and dressing-table. Across the bed were thrown
blankets, on which were blue swans and blue lions, and in the
dining-room adjoining the carpet was blue, with golden Bavarian lions,
and the all-pervading swans. This was a pretty room, the frescos
illustrating the story of a life in mediaeval times,--the life of a
warrior from the moment when he starts forth from his father's door, a
fair-haired boy, to seek his fortunes in the great world. Mountain
scenery, village life, his first service to a knight, battle, gallant
deeds, receiving knighthood, betrayal, imprisonment, escape,
victory,--all the eventful story until he sits with men old like
himself, and over their wine they tell of the doughty deeds of the past;
and then, older still, and frail and feeble and alone, he leans upon his
staff as he rests under a tree where careless children play around him.
A charming road, through the woods belonging to the Schwanstein park,
leads to the castle, past the lovely Alpsee, which looks deep and calm,
and lies lovingly nestled among the beautiful woods that surround it and
that rise high above it, as if striving to conceal its loveliness from
profane eyes.
We saw forty of the royal horses--pretty creatures they were too--each
with the name painted over the stall. We were reading them aloud, they
were so odd and fanciful, when, as one of us said Fenella, the little
horse that claimed that name turned her pretty head and tried to come to
us. However gently we would call her, she always heard and looked at us.
Encouraged by this gracious condescension on the part of a royal animal,
we ventured to make friends with her; and if ever a horse smiled with
good-will and delight it was Fenella when we gave her sugar.
His majesty's carriages were also shown to us, and received our
approval. They are plain and elegant, but do not differ from high-toned
equipages in general. A narrow little phaeton, low, and large enough to
hold but one person, we were told was a favorite of the king. In it,
with a man at each side of the horse's head leading him, and bearing a
torch, the king amuses himself by ascending dangerous mountain-roads at
night. They say it is astonishing where he will go in this manner. Fancy
meeting that scowling but interesting young man, his torches and his
funny little vehicle, on a lonely peak at midnight!