The Ludwig Conspiracy

by Oliver Pötzsch

  What would Ludwig have said if he had been watching it all, as the military men goose-stepped ahead of his casket in their gold-trimmed uniforms? If he had seen all the sycophantic courtiers, civil servants, and lackeys drawn up in rank and file in the funeral procession, faces sad and frowning while inwardly they rejoiced? At that moment I almost wished that the two dozen black-clad Cowled Men would turn on the whole pack of them with their fiery torches, but they walked in silence at the head of the procession, muffled in their ghostly robes, with the king’s coat of arms on their breasts, and the crossbones as a sign of death.

  When the casket was carried out of the Residence Palace, the sun briefly broke through the clouds in a last greeting. The people of Munich glanced up at the sky as if Ludwig might wave to them once more from on high. The king had just been laid in his final resting place in the crypt of St. Michael’s when bright lightning struck with such a loud peal of thunder that people fell to their knees, covering their ears with their hands. Many saw it as a sign that Ludwig is still among us, and already there are rumors that he has withdrawn to the depths of the Natternberg near Deggendorf, and will return someday to sit in judgment of his murderers.

  But I know that will never happen. The king is dead.

  NECAALAI

  Sitting down now to describe the events of the last few months, leading to Ludwig’s terrible end, I will begin with his final birthday celebration in August 1885. It was his fortieth. If we had guessed that no other birthday would follow, we would have shed tears and gone on our knees to the king, begging him to see reason at last. As it was, we put up with his whims and joined in his little games, in which each of us had an established part to play.

  Ludwig was celebrating his birthday, as he did almost every year, in his hunting lodge on the heights of Schachen in the massive Wetterstein mountain range. The local peasants had lit bonfires on the peaks, so that we were surrounded by a wreath of fire with the wooden hunting lodge at its center. The king had invited only a few of his faithful friends there with him, including his adjutant, Alfred Count Eckbrecht von Dürckheim-Montmartin; the postilion, Karl Hesselschwerdt; and my humble self.

  Since I had risen to the post of Loewenfeld’s assistant more than ten years before, the king had frequently invited me to keep him company. We often stayed up until the small hours of the morning, discussing the French court theater, or the poems of Schiller, as well as that remarkable writer Edgar Allan Poe, whom Ludwig loved more than any other contemporary author. I may say that I had become a genuine friend of the king’s in those years. And although his whims and posturing often seemed to me like the games of a boy of twelve, he was my king. There was no one else like this poetic, melancholy, pugnacious man on the earthly globe. An artist as head of state—what other country can claim as much for itself?

  On the night of 24 August, we were sitting up late on the upper floor of the Schachen lodge, in what was known as the Turkish Room. A few years earlier, Ludwig had had this room designed in the style of Moorish palaces. A fountain played, splashing gently; soft, richly ornamented carpets covered the floor, and the walls were decorated with gilded carvings and bright stained-glass windows. Wearing kaftans, we leaned back on cushions and divans, smoking hookah pipes and sipping mocha from tiny cups as thin as parchment. Servants fanned us with peacock feathers, and the music of a shawm came from somewhere.

  I was by now used to such spectacles staged by our king, so I was not surprised when he sat up on his cushion, placid as a portly Buddha, and offered me his pipe.

  “Dearest Mahmoud, my grand vizier and most loyal of my Mussulmen,” he said, turning to me with a grave expression, “you are too high-strung. Here, inhale some of this delicious tobacco. It will help you to dream a dream out of the Thousand and One Nights.”

  Smiling, I took the pipe and inhaled deeply. It was not a rare occurrence for the king to address us by historical names, or names of his own invention. In the last few years I had already been Gawain, Gunther, Faithful Eckhart, and Colbert, the French minister. Why not a grand vizier for a change? Through the smoke, I looked at Ludwig’s expansive figure and tried to recall him in his prime.

  It was some time since the king had been the well-built warrior who had had all the women at his feet in the first years of his reign. It was true, at almost six feet tall he was still a giant, but by now he weighed well over two hundred pounds. His face was pale and bloated, his eyes cloudy, his mouth fallen in and near toothless. I could smell his fetid breath from where I sat. The brightly colored Turkish costume that he wore in the Schachen hunting lodge did not conceal the fact that Ludwig was more and more letting himself go to seed. Only his hair was unchanged, still as thick and black as it had been when he ascended to the throne more than twenty years ago.

  But what alarmed all of us most were the sometimes deluded, sometimes dreamy moods that came over him with increasing frequency. He was a king of the moonlight who made night his day and lived in his own fairy-tale world. Even we, his faithful friends, could get through to him less and less often.

  Beside me, Count Dürckheim shifted restlessly on his cushion. Like the rest of us, the usually dashing adjutant with his neatly twirled mustache was wearing a loose silk caftan. Dürckheim hated these masquerades, but he knew that at such moments he could get much farther with his king than in any official meetings.

  “Your Majesty, we have to talk,” he began in a serious tone. “I went through the items on your civil list again yesterday. Your debts now amount to almost fourteen million marks, and I think that the building of your castles . . .”

  “Dürckheim, how many more times do I have to tell you that I don’t want to hear this tiresome financial drivel on my birthday?” the king snapped at him, and he closed the book of Turkish poetry that he had been about to go on reading. “It’s bad enough to have you pestering me with it in Munich. We’ll continue building the castles—that’s settled. They are the expression of my very being—without them I would not be king.” Suddenly his lips were narrow as two straight lines. “My father, my grandfather, they were all allowed to build such castles,” he hissed. “It’s only my own ministers who act in such a way. On my honor, Dürckheim, if those gentlemen don’t grant me more money, I’ll blow Hohenschwangau sky-high. I won’t endure the shame of it any longer. Money must be forthcoming, never mind how, understand? Have you understood?”

  Ludwig almost screamed those last words. Embarrassed, we all looked at the floor. The king’s financial difficulties had increased and multiplied in those last few years. The building of the new castle of Hohenschwangau (known as Neuschwanstein by the peasants), the castles of Herrenchiemsee and Linderhof, as well as a whole series of other projects, swallowed up huge sums of money. The king had only a restricted budget available, the civil list, as it was known, and he had more than exhausted that. By now he was in debt to several craftsmen, and the council of ministers was pressing him to discontinue the building works. In vain—Ludwig designed palaces the way little boys build castles out of sand or snow. One after another, a fairy-tale world in which he took refuge to be the kind of king he imagined himself. He was Arthur, and we were his knights of the Round Table; we were brave Germanic warriors—or, alternatively, as now, we were Saracens rattling our sabers and smoking our water pipes.

  After a moment’s silence, Dürckheim began again, low-voiced. His mustache was trembling, but he tried to sound composed. “Your Majesty, the ministers will not put up with this much longer. I am afraid that an attempted assassination . . .”

  “An assassination? By my ministers? Dürckheim, don’t be ridiculous.” Ludwig laughed so hard that his belly bounced up and down under the Turkish costume like a pig’s inflated bladder. “That corrupt band of civil servants is capable, at the most, of spoiling my dinner. An assassination attempt? More likely by the anarchists, if anyone.” Suddenly he was serious again. “Apart from that, I’ve been asking you for years to get a bodyguard together for me. True knights of the Grail who
would go to their deaths for me. And what has come of that, pray?”

  “There aren’t many left who can be trusted,” murmured Dürckheim. “I’ve heard news that Bismarck—”

  “That’s enough of such gossip.” The king pointed to Hesselschwerdt, the postilion who had risen to become a kind of second adjutant in the past year. I considered the little turncoat a hypocritical lickspittle, but unfortunately Ludwig had fallen for him hook, line, and sinker.

  “Our good Hesselschwerdt will solicit money from abroad next week. England, Venice, Genoa—isn’t that so, Hesselschwerdt?”

  The skinny postilion, who looked even more ridiculous than usual in his Turkish garb, nodded obsequiously. “Very good, Your Majesty,” he said. “Always at your service.”

  Ludwig let himself drop back again. “And now let us go on celebrating my birthday,” he purred like a fat, contented cat. “I’ve found a wonderful fairy tale here. I would like to read it aloud to the best of my ability. Compris?”

  A LITTLE LATER Dürckheim and I were standing out on the balcony of the hunting lodge. In silence we looked at the many bonfires slowly going out around us. Although it was August, an icy wind blew over the mountain.

  “What in God’s name did you mean when you spoke of an assassination attempt just now?” I asked at last. “You mentioned Bismarck. Do you really think that—”

  “Shhh.” Dürckheim put a finger to his lips. “Even here on Schachen I don’t know who’s still to be trusted. That postilion, Hesselschwerdt, plays whatever tune the king wants to hear. Damn lackey!” He kicked the balcony, while the king’s monotonous voice droned on inside. Ludwig had reached his third fairy tale.

  “But you’re right,” he said at last. “I did find out something that makes me uneasy. I know a few people in the Ministry of the Interior. It’s rumored that one of Bismarck’s men will soon be coming to Munich. None other than Carl von Strelitz, an agent whom the chancellor has employed in”—he drew a finger briefly across his throat—“in, well, rather delicate affairs. Von Strelitz has already worked for many different powers. He is regarded as one of the best spies in Europe, and one of the deadliest.”

  My heart missed a beat. “You really think that the chancellor of the German Empire plans to have Ludwig killed?” I asked in a hoarse voice. “Why?”

  Count Dürckheim was speaking so quietly now that I could hardly hear what he said. “Do you remember the king’s last furious outburst against the Prussians?” he asked. “When he said he’d sooner let the Austrians have his kingdom than stay in the German Empire under the heel of the Hohenzollerns?”

  Diffidently, I nodded. It was a fact: Ludwig had never forgotten that early in his reign he had lost the war against Prussia, and therefore had to fight against France in 1870 on the side of the Hohenzollerns he despised. The German Confederation had won the war, and King Wilhelm of Prussia, who as it happened was a distant relation of Ludwig, had put on airs as German Emperor ever since. Ludwig had made several attempts to hand over his crown to the Austrians and simply abdicate.

  “Bismarck has had enough,” Dürckheim went on quietly. “If Bavaria leaves the Empire, his dream of a German fatherland is over. For some time the imperial chancellor has been thinking of installing Ludwig’s uncle Luitpold as ruler of Bavaria. But, of course, the present king is in the way . . .”

  His last words lingered menacingly in the air. I began to shiver under my thin caftan.

  “But perhaps von Strelitz is only coming to assess the situation in Munich,” whispered Dürckheim. “Whatever happens, we must be on our guard.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  The count looked at me thoughtfully for a moment. Finally he asked, “Would you trust yourself to keep this man Strelitz under observation?”

  I felt all the color draining from my face. “But I’m not a police officer, a detective of any kind. I’m only a doctor. I hardly think . . .”

  “Theodor, I beg you!” Dürckheim had never before addressed me by my Christian name. “There’s no one else I can trust! The Ministry of the Interior turned away from the king long ago, and even the police may have been infiltrated. We have to find out what Bismarck has in mind, and before Ludwig’s enemies do.” A smile showed on his face for a moment. “What’s more, as an unknown assistant doctor, you have a considerable advantage. No one will suspect you of being a Bavarian agent on a secret mission.”

  “Oh, wonderful,” I whispered. “And how do you expect me to proceed?”

  He briefly outlined his plan, while, inside, the king recited an Ottoman poem from the last century. Several of the servants had already begun snoring quietly beneath their turbans.

  IIEAPQRX

  Two weeks later, I stood in a lightweight black overcoat, with a top hat and a riding whip, at Munich Central Rail Station, waiting for the four o’clock afternoon train. Count Dürckheim had found out from his informants in the Ministry of the Interior that von Strelitz would be staying in Munich under the name of Alfons Schmidt. The Ministry had assured the special Prussian envoy that a horse-drawn cab and driver would be sent for him. It couldn’t have been easy for Dürckheim to find out which cab company had been commissioned to supply them. But once he had done it, fifty marks had been enough for him to change the cabby for someone of his own choice.

  Me.

  Little beads of sweat prickled on my forehead, and not because of the sultry September day. I was expecting police officers to run toward me any moment and take me into custody in my cheap disguise. But nothing like that happened. The four P.M. train came into the station, whistling and puffing, the doors were opened, and out poured busy travelers from Berlin, Augsburg, and Nuremberg. Most of them were middle-aged men in rigid bowler hats, with the gold chains of their watches dangling from their fashionable double-breasted suits. There were also a few women among the passengers; they wore elaborate hats and full-skirted dresses with bustles, and they twirled parasols between their fingers as thin, badly shaved porters took care of their mountains of baggage.

  I recognized Strelitz by his lean figure, tall top hat, and neatly shaped side-whiskers. Count Dürckheim had shown me a photograph of the Prussian agent the day before. He carried a small traveling bag in one hand and a walking stick in the other. His overcoat billowed in the smoke of the locomotive, its whistle still blowing, so that for a moment he reminded me of a big black bat. He looked around, searching for the cab he had been told to expect.

  “Herr von Str—” I began, but bit the name back just in time and called out loud for a Herr Schmidt. Von Strelitz turned to me, and for a brief moment I thought he had seen through me. Dark eyes examined me as he thoughtfully twirled his black mustache.

  “Are you the driver I ordered?” he asked in the tone of a man used to command.

  I nodded diligently. “I am, monsieur. I am.” As if I were performing on stage in a theater, all my agitation had gone away as soon as I slipped into my part. “If you are Herr Schmidt from Berlin, then I’m your driver, monsieur. Always at your service.” I put my hand to my top hat and bowed slightly. “Shall I take your bag?” I indicated the small bag that Strelitz was carrying, but the agent shook his head.

  “It stays with me. Drive me to Maximilianstrasse first. We’ll be picking someone up there.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  We left the station building, which was not far from the city. Porters and cabdrivers ran back and forth, shouting and offering their services. A small boy was selling fragrant, warm pretzels from a handcart larger than himself. Von Strelitz shook off a few begging children, obviously with disgust, and followed me to my horse and carriage. I had tied the horse up to a pillar on the left of the station.

  “Drive quickly, please,” he growled, climbing into the back of the cab. “The gentleman we’re picking up doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

  I cracked the whip and prayed that the horse would obey me. I was a reasonably good horseman, and I had driven a coach a few times, but guiding a horse-dr
awn cab weighing some thousand pounds through the traffic of a large city like Munich was another matter.

  The horse trotted off, whinnying, and we passed through the great gate of the Karlstor, beyond which the city itself began. Children ran across the road, laughing and picking up horse droppings, a blind old soldier groped his way cautiously forward with his stick. Other cabs kept coming close, missing mine only by a hairsbreadth. In the last few decades, Munich had become a true metropolis, and as a result, its streets and alleys were crowded. I cracked the whip and tried to hide my lack of confidence. Secretly, however, I was cursing Dürckheim for his outlandish notion of making me masquerade as a coachman so that he could find out more about the Prussian agent’s plans.

  “We’re just turning into Maximilianstrasse now,” I announced, in a louder, more cheerful voice than I had intended. “See these magnificent buildings! A masterpiece of architecture for which King Maximilian the Second, during his reign, was—”

  “For God’s sake, keep your mouth shut, idiot,” said von Strelitz. “If I need a travel guide, I’ll buy one. Now, kindly stop up ahead of us there.”

  I nodded obediently, and drew the horse up outside a fine governmental building from which busy gentlemen with top hats and fat leather briefcases scurried. Von Strelitz drew the small curtain at his window aside and looked at them. Suddenly he waved, and an elderly gentleman of distinguished appearance with a monocle and a Kaiser Wilhelm mustache approached our cab.

  When I recognized him, my heart almost stopped. He was none other than Secretary Heinrich Pfaffinger, the right-hand man of Johann von Lutz, president of the Council of Ministers. Pfaffinger had seen me several times in the presence of the king. I pushed my top hat well down on my head and prayed to the Virgin Mary to keep him from recognizing me.