It was headed by two heralds in tabards, and by twelve pages in red, and then came the bride in a dress of silver tissue led by the bridegroom in uniform. She had on her head the small jewelled crown which every Prussian bride wears on her wedding day, and her train was carried by four young ladies. The Empress followed with the bride’s brother, the Grand Duke of Mecklenburg-Schwerin, and the Emperor with the bride’s mother, the Grand Duchess Anastasia. They were followed by a crowd of other royalties walking, as is the custom, hand-in-hand, sometimes one Prince conducting two Princesses, or one Princess being conducted by two Princes. They all looked very much amused at themselves, and those who happened to know me grinned delightedly and nodded as they passed. Prince Arthur of Connaught was there, and the very tall Duchess of Aosta, who walked with a tiny little Japanese gentleman. The Princess, who walked with Prince Joachim, made very friendly demonstrations as she went by, and choked with laughter when I responded by a very deep curtsy.
When the last of the procession had vanished we were all driven out at once, and an army of housemaids with brooms entered and began to sweep up the dirt and litter which the people had left behind. It was strange that on the most ceremonious occasions, when people were waiting round red carpets to welcome royal guests, or ambassadors weighed down with state secrets were on the point of getting into their carriages after audiences with the Emperor, always a print-gowned housemaid with a broom made a jarring appearance, wielding her implement coolly in the midst of state functionaries as though sweeping were the most important business of life. Sometimes she had scarcely disappeared before royalty itself emerged.
The Lutheran wedding-service is very simple. It begins with the long address of the clergyman to the bridal couple, admonishing them as to their duties to each other and the world at large. As everybody stands the whole time—for no chairs are admitted into the chapel, excepting one or two for specially exalted guests—this address is apt to appear longer than it really is. Each lady is in Court dress, wearing the regulation veil and long, heavy train which she must hold on her arm during the service, as it is not to be displayed until the Defilir-Cour which follows immediately afterwards. From the chapel the newly-married pair walk into the adjacent Weisser-Saal, where with the Emperor and Empress they stand to receive the congratulations of the invited guests, who pass quickly before them bowing, the ladies with their trains spread out. When the bride and bridegroom have made several hundred bows and the Cour is at an end, an adjournment is made to dinner, which is laid in several different rooms at small round tables, excepting the one where the royalties sit, which is fairly large. Here more quaint ceremonies take place. The Prince Fürstenberg as Marshal of the Court serves the Emperor with soup, and the other royal guests are also waited on by pages and gentlemen of birth, who take the dishes from the footmen. The Lord-High-Steward or Truchsess pours out the wine, and in the middle of the dinner the Emperor proposes the health of the newly-married pair.
The dinner, in spite of the attendant ceremonies, is not allowed to be too prolonged, for the great climax of these stately formalities still remains to be performed—the most beautiful, but perhaps for the hard-worked bridal pair also the most tiring of all—the famous Torch Dance, seen nowhere but at the Prussian Court, and when once seen, never to be forgotten.
The wedding procession returns to the beautiful Weisser Saal, where a regimental band, usually that of the Garde du Corps, is stationed in the gallery. Here, at a signal from an official, the music begins: slow stately marches are played, old-world tunes that seem an echo of past times. The royal ladies are all seated with their parti-coloured trains, which seem somehow to be the chief feature of all state functions, spread out in front of them—while rows of red-clad pages stand behind their chairs waiting to advance when the time arrives.
From the side entrance of the Saal, stepping in time to the music, enters the Marshal of the Court carrying his wand of office, preceding a double row of twenty-four pages who bear large torches. In stately rhythm they move once round the room, when the Marshal stops, and bows to the bride and bridegroom, who at once descend from the slightly-raised platform where they sit, and hand-in-hand, preceded by the torch-bearers, with four ladies carrying the bride’s train, the group moves round the Hall in time to the music. I have seen this ceremony four times, at as many royal weddings, and cannot express its wonderful fascination, its mixture of poetry and romance, its glamour of colour, its irresistible charm to the beholder. There is the lulling monotony of sound, the flicker and smoke of the torches, the brilliant blending of many tones, the dignified movement of the dancers, the crowd of seated royalties opposite the crowd of standing courtiers. It takes on something of the aspect of a fairy tale, is reminiscent of “Cinderella” or of a half-forgotten ballad of bygone days.
The bride and bridegroom having made their tour of the room once alone, return and separate, the bride now taking out the Emperor and her own nearest male relative, while the bridegroom leads out his mother and that of the bride, and they again march slowly round the room. All the ladies’ trains, excepting those of the bride and the Empress, are carried by four pages, the two exceptions by four ladies who themselves wear trains. And so round after round bride and bridegroom return and hand out the rest of the Princes and Princesses in turn.
In order to hasten matters, towards the end three or four of the younger ones are linked together on either hand, and a chain of happy, smiling youth treads the last stately measure round the Hall.
The Torch Dance finishes, and the torch-bearers wend their way out, followed by the long glittering procession, away to the private apartments. The ceremonies are at an end. It is nine o’clock, and presently, if you listen, you may hear the cheers of the people in the street greeting the bridal couple as they drive quickly through the summer darkness on their way to the station.
After they are gone, there remains only one small ceremony, which is often very unceremonious—the scramble of the courtiers for the so-called Garter of the Bride. Hundreds of pieces of white satin ribbon marked with her cipher are distributed by the Mistress of the Ceremonies, and for a few moments pandemonium seems to reign. At the last wedding I was flung bodily into the arms of a Kammer-Herr, a gold-laced official of great dignity; and some of the royalties returning to their apartments were plunged into the vortex of the struggle and severely hustled and pushed about before a passage could be made for them. The distributing lady was then kindly but firmly requested to pursue her avocations in a side corridor farther away.