Family Life of the Emperor
We have already had glimpses of Emperor William’s domestic affairs at
the time of his marriage and when the birth and education of their
children brought new duties to the august parents. After the wars were
over and our hero had more time and opportunity to enjoy the pleasures
of home, he took the greatest delight in his grandchildren, the sons and
daughters of the Crown Prince. Of these his special favorite was the
eldest, who in turn had the greatest affection and reverence for his
grandfather. In this Prince Frederick William—or William, as he was
called after reaching his majority, by the Emperor’s express command—the
latter beheld the future heir to the throne, and watched over his
education, therefore, with the greatest care; inculcating in him, above
all things, the true German spirit of devotion to the Fatherland, a deep
appreciation of the army, which had been so largely his own creation,
and lastly a boundless faith in that Providence which had so often
proved his best help in time of need.
On the ninth of February, 1877, he placed his grandson in the First
Regiment of Foot Guards. “Now go on and do your duty!” was the
conclusion of his address to the Prince on that occasion, and these few
words expressed the ruling purpose of his own life,—a career that
offered such a noble example to the young soldiers. Without fear or
hesitation he had always done his duty faithfully, and thereby won fame
and greatness for his house, his people, and all Germany.
His grandfather’s injunctions proved a powerful incentive to Prince
William. A true Hohenzollern from head to heel, he has devoted himself
heart and soul to the army, following in the footsteps of the two heroic
figures that were so near and dear to him. Both father and grandfather
watched with deepest pride and interest the quick advancement of the
young officer, whose military career must often have reminded the
Emperor of his own youth.
It was a great satisfaction to the aged monarch that he was spared to
witness his favorite’s marriage to the charming Princess Augusta
Victoria of Schleswig-Holstein, which took place February 27, 1881; and
still greater was his happiness when on May 6, 1882, a son was born to
the young couple. This was God’s crowning mercy! Four generations,—the
patriarch whose eighty-five years had indeed bleached his hair and
furrowed his brow, but with bodily and mental vigor still unimpaired;
the noble grandfather, a magnificent figure in the nation’s history,
sound of heart and ripe in experience; the young father, in the first
flush of manly vigor, with a long and brilliant future before him; and
last, the infant son, grandson, and great-grandson just opening his eyes
to a conscious existence. It is not hard to understand the feeling of
exultation in which, at news of the happy event, the Emperor shouted,
“Hurrah! four Kings!”
But, alas! this bright promise of a smiling future was soon to be
darkened by a cloud so thick and heavy that it threatened to overwhelm
the stanch old hero who had stood fast through so many of the storms of
life. Early in the year 1887 symptoms of an alarming throat trouble
began to show themselves in the Crown Prince. At first it was considered
merely an obstinate attack of hoarseness, but it soon became evident
that a much worse and more dangerous malady was to be reckoned with. All
that was within human power and skill to accomplish was resorted to. The
most celebrated authorities on diseases of the throat were consulted,
the most healthful resorts of Europe tried, but in vain. All possible
measures for relief were powerless. The whole country was
grief-stricken, nor was the public sorrow confined to Germany alone. All
seemed to see the noble figure of the Crown Prince shouting to his men
at Königgrätz, “Forward, in God’s name, or all is lost!” or leading his
army from victory to victory in the war with France, and now stricken
with an insidious disease that slowly but surely sapped away his life.
Nor did they feel less for the afflicted father, waiting anxiously for
news from San Remo of his beloved son and heir. It was indeed a dark
shadow on our hero’s otherwise bright evening of life!
In these days the Emperor clung more fondly than ever to his daughter,
the Grand Duchess of Baden, and her devoted husband. At least once a
year when visiting the springs at Ems or Gastein he had always been in
the habit of spending a few days with them, and these visits were bright
spots in the old man’s life. Here for a brief time he was “off duty”;
free from the daily burden and pressing cares of state, among his loved
ones, and surrounded by that tender care that only a loving daughter can
bestow. He was always happy at these times, chatting in his friendly way
with great and small, and rejoicing at any opportunity of giving
pleasure to others.
Once, soon after the war, when he was staying at Ems, a bookseller there
had his show window decorated with pictures of the Emperor. As the
latter was passing the shop one day, he saw a crowd of boys gathered
about the window. Stepping up to them he asked, “What is here, children?
What do you like best of all these pretty things? Which would you rather
have? Tell me.”
The boys looked at him and at one another in confusion and did not know
what to answer, till at last one lively urchin helped them out of their
dilemma by shouting, “I will buy the German Emperor!”
“Good!” replied the Emperor, “you shall all have him. How many are there
of you?” He counted the boys, then went into the shop and bought a
number of the pictures, which he distributed among them.
Another favorite diversion of Emperor William was hunting, and he often
went in the fall or winter to shoot at Letzlingen, Hubertsstock, or
elsewhere. Once at the Count von Stolberg-Wernigerode’s, they had had a
successful day, and the Emperor had distinguished himself, for he was an
excellent marksman. When the game was counted, it was announced that the
sovereign’s share was twenty-eight, whereat His Majesty smiled roguishly
and remarked to his companions:
“These results remind me of the quotation ‘There are more things in
heaven and earth than are dreamt of in our philosophy’—for is it not a
marvel that I should have shot twenty-eight pieces of game and only
fired twenty-five cartridges?”
All the Emperor’s servants had the deepest respect and affection for
him, and with good reason, for never was there a more kind and generous
master, continually making them presents and never forgetting to bring
back some little gift when he went on a journey. His dependents were
always treated with the greatest kindness and indulgence and never
received a harsh word, yet they never failed to feel that he was the
master. One evening he went to the Victoria Theatre alone, accompanied
only by the coachman and a _jäger_, the latter of whom betook himself to
a restaurant across the street as soon as his master had alighted.
Whether the play did not please His Majesty, or what the reason was,
does not signify, but he left the theatre again after about a quarter of
an hour. The carriage was there, but no _jäger_. The Emperor must wait.
At a sign from the coachman one of the theatre attendants ran to fetch
the delinquent, who, terrified, began to stammer out excuses with
trembling lips. But the Emperor only remarked quietly, “Why make so much
of the matter? You must often have been obliged to wait for me, now for
once I have waited for you; so we are quits. Open the carriage door for
me!”
At another time, when he was suffering from a severe cold, his
physician, Dr. von Lauer, had carefully prepared, besides the necessary
medicines, a tea for use during the night to allay his cough, and shown
the attendant exactly how much of the liquid should be warmed and given
to the patient at each coughing-spell. When he made his morning visit,
he was joyfully informed by the faithful old servant that his master had
had a quiet night. Much relieved, the physician entered his patient’s
sleeping chamber, but a glance at the worn face and another at the empty
teapot made him doubt the accuracy of the information he had just
received. The Emperor answered the unspoken question himself, however.
“I have coughed a great deal, doctor,” he said, “and slept but little”;
then added, in answer to the physician’s glance, “I took the tea several
times but did not ring for my valet. The old man needs his sleep, so I
warmed the drink myself over the spirit lamp.”
It was this same old servant who once declared, “I have been for forty
years with my royal master and have yet to hear him give an order or
speak a harsh word. With His Majesty it is always ‘Please’ and ‘Thank
you,’ never anything else.”
This very regard and consideration for others may have proved fatal to
himself, for on the night of March 3, 1888, when obliged to leave his
bed for a short time, instead of summoning his servant, as Dr. von Lauer
had repeatedly charged him to do on such occasions, he let the old man
sleep and attempted to get up by himself; but a sudden faintness seized
him and he sank helpless on the floor. By the time the valet had come to
his assistance the Emperor was chilled through and unable, so says the
Berlin “Court Chronicle,” to show himself at the window the following
day. He begged the valet, however, to say nothing of this to the
physician.
Yet in spite of his leniency, the Emperor was too thorough a soldier not
to be a strict disciplinarian also. His slightest nod was equivalent to
a command with his dependents, and a reproof therefore was seldom
necessary. If anything went wrong he would merely say quietly, “That is
not the way I care to have things done,” and this simple remark was more
effective than a string of oaths would have proved from another. But if
their royal master’s admonition was “This shall not be done,” then the
whole household trembled.
It was also characteristic of the Emperor that he never remembered a
fault or laid it up against the offender. If the kindly expression gave
place to sternness for the time, it was never long until his usual
cheerful serenity returned; while if he himself had erred or given an
undeserved rebuke, he was quick to acknowledge it and ask pardon.
Once in the seventies, while staying at the grand-ducal court of
Schwerin, a visit had been planned to the Court Theatre, at that time
under the direction of the Intendant Baron von Wolzogen, and the Grand
Duke had ordered a special armchair to be placed in the royal box for
the august guest. As expected, the Emperor made his appearance that
evening at the theatre. It was devoted to light comedy, of which he was
especially fond; but as he seated himself, sitting down somewhat
heavily, as was his custom, the chair that had been provided for him
gave way, and he found himself for a moment on the floor, though
fortunately unhurt. In the audience the accident was scarcely noticed;
but to the Intendant, who anxiously hastened to the box, His Majesty
said shortly and coldly:
“In future, when you receive guests, see to it that at least they are
not given disabled chairs,” and turned quickly away without giving the
mortified Intendant any opportunity for excuses. As it chanced, however,
the providing of the chair had not been intrusted to him, but to the
Court Chamberlain. During the next intermission, therefore, the Emperor
sent for the Intendant and greeted him kindly with the words:
“My dear Baron, I did you an injustice just now; my reprimand was
directed to the wrong address, as I have learned in the meantime. I am
sorry and wanted to tell you so this evening, so we should both sleep
the better.”