“The Comte d’Artois has taken it into his head to pull down a country house in the Bois de Boulogne, and to rebuild it from top to bottom. It is to be newly furnished, and a fête is to be given there to the Queen. Everybody thought it absurd to attempt to finish such a piece of work in six or seven weeks; yet it has been done—nine hundred workmen having been employed day and night. The most extraordinary part of the case is that, as there was a deficiency of materials, especially of stones, lime, and plaister, and that time was not to be lost in procuring them elsewhere, M. le Comte d’Artois gave orders that patrols of the Swiss Guards should search the main roads, and seize every cart containing materials of this kind which they came across.”
At sixty years of age, Louis I., or Ludwig, King of Bavaria, took under his protection the notorious dancing-woman, Lola Montes, under whose wretched influence the misguided monarch was guilty of the most inconceivable follies. She so outraged every idea of propriety, that on one occasion the mob threatened to pull her house to the ground. But she treated the matter with a high hand; and, to show her contempt for the crowd, flung a dog among them, and she is even said to have thrust her tongue in her cheek at the people. And, when it is remembered that there was scarcely a freak of folly which Ludwig did not do at her bidding, it is not surprising that the public indignation was unbounded. She succeeded, however, in dragging the weak-minded King with her in her fall, whose position, after the terrible scandal and disgrace, had become so unbearable that he found himself forced to abdicate, which took place in the year 1848. In his time of retirement one of the pleasantest associations of his past was the velvet-covered mattress stuffed with beards and moustaches, which the soldiers of his father’s regiment had cut off for the express purpose, and presented to him.
But one of the strangest and most eccentric of modern kings was Ludwig II., known as the “Mad King” of Bavaria, who from his earliest youth appears to have been a dreamer and a visionary. The romantic legends which charmed him as a boy retained their influence over him in after years, and he grew up with the most morbid propensities, never taught to control himself, or to keep his nerves in check. He disliked physical exertion, and an aversion to anything disagreeable became in him a monomania, for he could not endure even the sight of a cripple or of an ill-formed person.[7]
As a boy, we are told, the Castle of Hohenschwangau in the Bavarian Alps fascinated his imagination, for “knights in armour spoke to him; Rhine maidens drew him into their arms; he saw his ancestors, the old Wittelsbach heroes, seated upon their war-horses, their swords drawn, fighting their way into Rome, or resting under the palms by the banks of the Nile.” At two and twenty he betrothed himself to his cousin, Sophie Charlotte—daughter of Maximilian of Bavaria and sister of the Empress of Austria—who afterwards became Duchesse d’Alençon, and perished in the fire at the Bazar de la Charité. But for some reason the match was broken off, and henceforth he became “more melancholy and more enamoured of solitude,” dwelling “in pathetic loneliness, with little society save his brooding dreams—his days, or rather his nights, for he had already begun to invert the division of the twenty-four hours, peopled with the heroes and legends of myth.”
Once only, it is said, did he really rouse himself, when he threw in his lot with Prussia in 1870. But after all it was only a fictitious enthusiasm, for he would not accompany his army, backing out on the plea that he had strained a sinew. He grew tired of life and disgusted with everything, and there seems to have been in his unbalanced mind some jealousy of the Crown Prince Frederick, who had performed the deeds which had ever been the subject of his dreams. And his extraordinary eccentricities got gradually worse, and he acquired the habit of drinking a mixture of champagne and Rhenish wine in which violets floated, consorting only with his servants. Finally, when it was announced to him that his deposition had been decided, he exclaimed, “Let the traitors be thrown into the deepest dungeon, loaded with chains, and leave them to die of starvation.” But not very long afterwards he was removed to the Château of Berg, where he was mysteriously drowned in the Starnberg Lake.
At an early age Alfonso VI. of Portugal had the misfortune to have his limbs and his reason partially paralysed by fever—a circumstance which must account for his wicked and vicious life in after years. On any other ground it is impossible to excuse his conduct, which was infamous and contemptible. But some of his freaks were so outrageous as to be attributable only to insanity, and it is surprising that they should have been tolerated for any length of time. What would be said of a monarch at the present day who, with a set of ruffianly companions, roamed the streets at night, “assaulted passengers, fired into the coaches of the nobles, and routed religious processions at the point of the sword.” We nowadays can scarcely realise a responsible ruler attending midnight orgies of the most disreputable and repulsive kind, and afterwards returning to his palace with flaunting females of the most dissolute and repulsive character. On one occasion, however, in one of his mad freaks he encountered two passengers, and drawing his sword attacked them; but they drew in return, and, after giving his Majesty far more than he bargained for, they left him to be picked up by his followers, who carried him home to bed. A humiliation of this kind was lost on a monarch who was too depraved to have any feeling of self-respect; for, when he was summoned to the bedside of his dying mother, he tarried so long on the way to amuse himself, that when he arrived she had lost the power of sight and speech.
Despite his natural gifts, which were great, there can be no doubt that the texture of Don Sebastian’s mind was inwoven with the threads of that hereditary insanity which broke out so tragically in his cousin, Don Carlos. One of his eccentric freaks was to have the body of John II. lifted from its quiet resting-place in the Abbey of Batalha, where it had lain three-quarters of a century; and which, being found entire and uncorrupted, was placed erect on its feet, clad in kingly robes, and was armed with the rusty sword it had once wielded. Whereupon the Duke of Aveiro was commanded as a token of homage to kiss the withered hand of the corpse, and Sebastian, exclaiming, “Behold the best officer of our kingly office!” turned away to pursue his sepulchral visitations elsewhere.
Not long before his death, Charles II. of Spain had one of those strange funereal yearnings, so distinctive of the last days of nearly every member of the Austrian House of Spain. Thus, Juana la Loca would not surrender the embalmed body of her husband, and Philip II., shortly before he died, called for a skull and placed a crown upon it. Philip IV. went and lay in the niche destined for him in the Pantheon. And similarly, a weird sepulchral fancy animated the decaying brain of Charles II. To indulge his morbid and diseased feelings, he would descend into the royal mausoleum, open the coffins, and look face to face on the chiefs of his race who had worn his crown before him. He went down by the light of torches into the dark vault of the Pantheon, the huge candelabrum was lit, and all the coffins, beginning with that of Charles V., were opened for him in order. Charles V. was much decayed; the features of Philip II. were distorted; Philip III. was nearly perfectly preserved in form, but crumbled into dust as soon as his body was touched. After the kings he passed to the queens, and when that of his first queen was opened, and he saw the form and still charming features of her who had glorified his dark life and brain for a while, his throat was convulsed, tears streamed from his eyes, and he fell with outstretched arms on the bier, crying, “My queen, my queen, before a year is past I will come and join you.”[8] This visit of the last descendant of the House of Austria to view the corpses of his race is one of the strangest scenes in history.
Charles V. had his funeral rites celebrated before him, but, as Dr. Doran writes, the spectacle of the ex-Emperor celebrating his own funeral service has been divested of much of its apparent absurdity by the simple statements of eye-witnesses and modern writers who have reproduced their statements. It was a ceremony, however, on which even Charles did not venture till he had received ecclesiastical permission. He did not attend it in his shroud, nor lie down in his own coffin. There were the ordinary ornaments which the Romish Church uses at the usual services for the dead, and nothing more. The only exception to the ordinary service was when Charles, extinguishing the light which he held, surrendered it into the hands of a priest, in token of yielding up his life to the will of God.
And similarly, we are reminded how Maria Theresa, who survived her husband fifteen years, lived amid the emblems of perpetual mourning. She shut herself up on the 18th of every month, and the whole of every August, the day and month of his death. As her life drew near its end, she spent many days at times in the funeral chapel before the picture of her husband, taken as he lay in his coffin, and her last words, well understood by those around her, were, “I come to thee.”