The Alpsee, near Schloss Hohenschwangau, Bavaria
1868
While Niels would never be the outdoorsman his father was, the more time he spent in the Alps, the more fond he became of the trails snaking through the region. The Alpsee, near the royal palace Hohenschwangau, was his favorite spot, a lake rimmed by snowcapped peaks. Its clear, azure water beckoned him like an old friend. He’d taken to spending many an afternoon wandering along the path beside it, singing as he went.
On that day—that critical day, the most important of his life, the day when everything changed—he’d stopped along the shore and climbed onto a rock to watch a swan swimming, its white feathers shimmering in the sun. The creature’s movement was pure and majestic; Niels found himself unexpectedly moved. It stretched its long neck and took flight, soaring into the sky. Niels started to sing “Mein lieber Schwan,” Lohengrin’s Farewell, from Wagner’s opera.
My thanks to you, dear swan!
Glide back over the wide water to the place
from which your boat brought me;
return to where alone lies our happiness!
Then will your task be faithfully fulfilled.
Farewell, farewell, beloved swan!
He stopped, then started again, and sang it twice more. He paused, drew a breath, but blew it out. Three times was enough.
“Again, my good man, again.” The voice came from behind him, in the trees. For an irrational moment, Niels thought it was his father, but it was nothing like. He turned around and saw a tall, dark-haired young man, handsome, with a noble bearing: Ludwig II, King of Bavaria.
“Your Majesty.” Niels bowed low, his heart pounding.
“Rise, rise,” the king said. “Your voice … sing again.”
“I’m no singer, Your Majesty, only—”
“Your king commands it.”
Niels fought to control his voice. It was a struggle, but he managed. Ludwig leaned against a tree, his eyes closed, his face a mask of blissful rapture as he listened.
“Who are you?” the king asked when the song ended.
“Niels von Schön, Your Majesty.”
“You are Bavarian.”
“Yes.”
“A subject of mine.”
“Yes.”
“Something about you is familiar.” The king walked closer and studied Niels’s face, then waved a hand. “I cannot place you.”
They had met before, as boys, brought together by their mothers, but hadn’t liked each other. Not at all. Niels because he’d felt uncomfortable in the vast Schloss Nymphenburg, summer residence of the royal family. The day had been unbearably hot. Why Ludwig hadn’t taken to his guest, Niels didn’t know. It had never bothered him. If anything, he’d been relieved not to be asked back.
His mother was less pleased. She’d hoped the boys would become fast friends, inseparable companions. When that didn’t happen, she’d started to tease that if only he’d been a girl, he might have married the crown prince. Spouses, she said, didn’t need to like each other. His father never found the joke amusing, but then, he didn’t find much amusing. He’d long hoped for another child—another son—but that was never to happen.
“I’d say you’re the familiar one,” Niels said, deciding not to bring up their previous encounter. “But then, your face is everywhere.”
Ludwig narrowed his eyes. “You treat me in a very offhand manner. I think I like it. Come, lunch with me at Hohenschwangau. We will discuss the works of my Friend, my ardently beloved Richard Wagner.” Friend was capitalized when the king spoke, of that there was no doubt. He turned on his heels and walked away, not waiting for Niels to reply.
What could he do but follow?