King Ludwig Second of Bavaria
Through all her sorrows and troubles Elizabeth never lost her love for
her Bavarian home or for her own family, with whom she corresponded
regularly. For many years she was in the habit of spending part of every
summer at Possenhoffen, revisiting the scenes of her childhood and going
about among her peasant friends, who always spoke of her as “our
Empress,” forgetful of the fact that this title properly belonged to the
Queen of Prussia.
The years had brought many sorrows and misfortunes to Duke Max Joseph
and his wife. Their oldest son married an actress of doubtful
reputation. The Princess of Thurn and Taxis early lost her husband and
oldest child and was left with the burden of managing the vast family
estates. The third daughter, Marie, like Elizabeth, was elevated to a
throne at the age of seventeen, by becoming the wife of Francis Second,
King of the Two Sicilies; but barely a year later Garibaldi’s freelances
robbed her unworthy husband of his crown and made her a queen without a
country. A scarcely happier fate befell her sister Mathilde, who was
married at eighteen to Count Louis of Trani, a broken-down _roué_ who
afterward died by his own hand. Neither of these Princesses had seen
their husbands before their marriage.
Sophie, Duchess d’Alençon, the youngest of the five sisters, was very
beautiful and resembled the Empress Elizabeth in appearance, though not
at all in disposition, for those who knew her as a young girl describe
her as being full of animation and vivacity. She became engaged to her
cousin Ludwig Second of Bavaria a year after his accession to the
throne, and the betrothal met with general approval. He was a strikingly
handsome young man of twenty at this time, and so desperately in love
with his cousin that he had a bust made of her by a famous sculptor and
placed in his winter garden where he could always look at it. Just
before the wedding was to take place, however, he suddenly broke the
engagement without a word of preparation or explanation, because he
suspected that she was untrue to him. There is no doubt that the
Princess was the victim of a deliberate plot to rob her of the King’s
affection, but Ludwig made no attempt at reparation of any kind and his
behavior made a breach between him and Duke Max’s family which was never
healed.
Ludwig himself, fed by continual flattery and admiration and with a
morbid idea of his own dignity, was deeply injured by the supposed
faithlessness of his _fiancée_. In the first transports of his rage he
seized the bust of the Princess and flung it out of the window, dashing
it to pieces on the stones of the courtyard. Even at the beginning of
his reign he had shown signs of mental unsoundness, but from this time
he began to shun the society of his fellow creatures and lived a
solitary life. He would have nothing more to do with women, and except
for a few chosen companions would see no one. Even when obliged to
receive his ministers, he would hide behind a screen. The only exception
he made was in favor of his cousin Elizabeth, with whom he was a great
favorite in spite of his erratic ways, and who also was devoted to him
until his death. They were much alike in temperament as well as in
appearance, and he always looked forward to her arrival each summer at
Feldafing, near which was one of his favorite retreats, “Roseninsel,” a
small island shut in by dense shrubbery and lofty trees. In olden times
it had been the site of a heathen temple which was replaced later by a
Roman Catholic chapel. The gardens, which were laid out by King
Maximilian Second, were greatly enlarged and beautified by his son
Ludwig and are said to contain sixteen thousand of the choicest
varieties of roses, the perfume of which is wafted far out across the
lake. The Hermitage, a small villa in the Italian style, and the
gardener’s cottage are now the only buildings left in this wilderness of
flowers, so overgrown that it is almost impossible to approach the
little wharf where King Ludwig used to land from his yacht _Tristan_.
Here he collected all his favorite authors and spent long happy days
dreaming over them or working in the garden, and here too he and
Elizabeth would meet and pour out their hearts to each other, alone and
undisturbed.
After all, who can say with certainty where human reason ends and
insanity begins? “I am not sure,” the Empress once said, in speaking of
Shakespeare’s Hamlet, “that those persons who are called mad are not the
really wise ones.” King Ludwig’s eccentricities became so pronounced,
however, that in 1886 he was forced to resign the government and was
sent to Schloss Berg on Lake Starnberg under the care of a physician.
One June evening they went out to walk together as usual, and when,
after waiting in vain for their return, a search was made, the bodies of
both were found at length at the bottom of the lake. Elizabeth happened
to be staying at Feldafing when the catastrophe occurred and was deeply
affected by the King’s tragic death. She hastened at once to the castle,
and entering the room where his lifeless body lay, requested to be left
alone with it. For an hour her attendants waited, and at length, alarmed
at the delay, ventured to enter the apartment, where they found their
mistress stretched upon the floor, apparently lifeless. It was only with
the greatest difficulty that she was restored to consciousness, and when
at last she did open her eyes, she stared wildly about her for some
moments, then cried in a shaking voice: “For God’s sake, release the
King from the mortuary chapel! He is not dead—he is only pretending to
be so, that he may be left in peace and not tormented any longer.”
Ludwig’s body was carried back to Munich, where he lay in state, the
bier heaped about with wreaths and floral offerings, but on the breast
of the dead King lay a simple spray of jasmine, Elizabeth’s last gift to
her friend and kinsman.