PRISON FOR PRINCES THAT OPPOSE THE KING
Duke of Saxony banished—Cut off from good literature even—Anecdote concerning the Grand Dauphin and his "kettledrums"—A royal prince's garrison life—His association with lewd women.
Dresden, September 1, 1895.
I have once more come to the conclusion that the agreement I made with Leopold, to dissimulate my real feelings, was the sanest decision I ever formed, for, while lettres de cachet are a dead measure as far as ordinary mortals go, kings still wield that awful and mysterious abuse of power in the family circle.
There is a distant connection of our "sublime master," the King, lingering, without process of law, in a state prison. Duke of Saxony is his title, and he is quite rich in his own right. Some six or eight years ago he raised his hand against the King after the latter struck him.
It was suggested that he had better make away with himself, and a revolver and poison were conspicuously displayed in the room where he was held captive.
The Duke said "nay." He thought he could "brass" it out. But the assembled family council taught him that, while the world at large was fin-de-siècle, royalty still lived in the traditions of the eighteenth century. It empowered the King to banish his kinsman to a lonely country house, styled castle by courtesy, and he is confined there even today, with the proviso, though, that he may use the surrounding hunting-grounds. Otherwise he lives in complete seclusion, separated not only from all his friends, but from the very classes of society to which he belongs by birth and education. And he is still a young man.
I believe they are trying to drive him mad, once as a punishment, and again to secure his fortune the quicker. To the latter end, he is denied all books that give him pleasure and are liable to improve his mind. Bibles, Christian Heralds, the Lives of the Martyrs, or the Popes, galore, but never a Carlyle, Shakespeare or Taine, which he demands regularly.
The Duke is dying of ennui, they say, and to kill time engages in all sorts of manual labor. When he gets tired of that he blows the trombone.
"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."