Schloss Neuschwanstein
1906
Eager though I was to see the Swan King’s fairy-tale creation, I struggled to drag myself out of bed. Colin and I had not retired until horrendously late. Forgive me; that statement is not precisely true. We retired, but did not sleep for some time, and my difficulties stemmed less from exhaustion than from wanting to stay exactly where I was, perfectly comfortable in my husband’s arms. However, one may not long indulge in such frivolities when at a house party. Early the next morning, we were in the sleigh, en route to the castle.
Few people have not seen drawings or photographs of Neuschwanstein, its sleek, white towers jutting into the sky from its rocky perch, as sublime, magnificent, and dramatic as the mountains surrounding it. No image can do the structure justice. Some alchemy occurred when it was built, combining the structure and its setting, making it a dream come to life. It’s the perfect setting for a little girl who wants to wait for her prince. Or, if she’s sensible, the perfect place from whence to summon her prince to do her bidding. It’s where little boys imagine they’ll set off on knightly adventures, atop a noble steed, in search of the Holy Grail. It’s a spot where even the most cynical adult can remember a time when fantasy meant possibility, not disappointment.
In those days, the castle was not ordinarily open to the public in the winter, but Ursula had arranged for us to be admitted. We’d set off from the villa in multiple sleighs, but, much to my relief, no one liked the idea of exploring the castle as a herd. Instead, we splintered into smaller groups. Sigrid and Max, sharing an interest in both Ludwig II and Wagner, had paired up before we departed the house. Liesel, wanting to avoid any perception that she was trying to pressure Ursula to purchase the paintings she’d brought, asked to join them. Birgit, Felix, and Kaspar—whose knee apparently was no longer bothering him in the slightest—each expressing disinterest in Ludwig and Wagner, went off together, which left Colin and me with Cécile and Ursula.
“I’ve never liked this place,” Ursula said, sniffing discontentedly, after we’d entered the Palas, the castle’s main building. “No grown man, let alone a king, should waste his time and money playing with toys.”
“It’s awfully large for a mere toy, Baroness,” Colin said.
“You must stop referring to me by my title. The formality of the previous century has no place in this one. Regardless of size, Neuschwanstein is a toy, and was from the start. Ludwig was a selfish man indulging narcissistic whims.”
“It didn’t end well for him,” Colin said, “if that’s any consolation.”
“Very slim indeed. The rest of the world thinks it’s marvelous, and, as it would be wrong to deny you all the chance to see it, I shall do my best to withhold my opinions on the matter. My family are descended from the Baiovarii, who drove the Romans out of what we now call Bavaria. When one has real history, one need not wallow in the fictional.”
“You object to myths and legends?” I asked.
“Not in the slightest,” she said, “but fairy tales become dangerous when one is obsessed with futile attempts to make them real. Therein lies a path to ruin.”
We were standing in the two-story-high throne room, its dome reminiscent of the one found at Hagia Sophia in Constantinople. An enormous chandelier, Byzantine in style, hung from the ceiling. In 1868, work began on the site, and only a few years later, the Kingdom of Bavaria was incorporated into the newly unified Germany. While Bavaria maintained more independence than many of its neighbors, it no longer was a sovereign state, which was a blow to its king. Yet here was a room, profused with gilt, that shouted the power of the monarch and his divine connection; it was more cathedral than castle. Paintings of the apostles and holy kings decorated the walls of the apse. In this space, Ludwig had made clear his divine right to rule. I said this aloud, but Cécile protested.
“There’s no throne,” she said.
“Correct.” Ursula’s voice was clipped. “Ludwig died, and the throne was never built. That’s what they say, at least. I can claim no special insight into the man’s disturbed thoughts, but I spent enough time with him to find another story more plausible. One of his many obsessions was the Holy Grail. Some believe he intended this room to be its sanctuary. In that case, the cup of Christ, not a throne, would be the intended centerpiece.”
“The Grail is lost to history,” I said.
“Which explains why the room is empty,” Ursula said. “If Ludwig left it deliberately so to make a point, that may be the only thing about the whole wretched place I can almost appreciate.”
“If the story about the king’s intentions is true,” Colin said.
“When it comes to that, I shall temporarily allow myself to indulge in fantasy.”
As we explored the other rooms in the castle’s interior, I began to understand Ursula’s conflicting feelings about Neuschwanstein. Mine were different from hers, but complicated nonetheless. Beau tiful though it all was, there was an undeniable falseness to the place. It was not a medieval castle but rather a nineteenth-century construction. As such, there was a certain sincerity in its artifice; there was no pretending to be something it wasn’t. But what was Neuschwanstein? The escapist fantasy of a mad king? A loving homage to a time when honor and chivalry reigned? A celebration of Norse and German legends?
Many of those legends featured in Wagner’s operas, and Ludwig’s castle included multiple references to them. Parsifal tells the story of the man who became Grail King, ruling from the Castle of the Holy Grail, lending credence to Ursula’s theory about the throne room. Ludwig’s elaborate blue bedroom, full of ornate wood carvings, told the heartbreaking story of Tristan and Isolde, another story brought to life by Wagner. The unresolved chord in its music leaves every listener with an almost unbearable longing that can never be satisfied. It seemed to me an odd choice for a room where one hoped to slumber, but perhaps Ludwig’s royal duties, as was the case for many monarchs, kept him from finding love and left him sympathetic to the doomed lovers.
The Wagner connection was most visible in the Singers’ Hall, which stretched nearly the entire length of the Palas’s fourth floor. Murals on the walls depicted scenes from the life of Parzival, upon which the composer based Parsifal. The chamber, with its coffered wooden ceiling, was modeled after two medieval rooms in Wartburg: the Festival and the Singers’ halls. It might have been a set for Tannhäuser.
“It’s spectacular,” I said to Colin. “I half expect to find a knight singing to the goddess Venus.”
He took me by the arm, led me across the room away from our friends, and leaned so close I could feel his breath on my neck when he spoke. “I didn’t realize you’d paid that much attention when we saw the opera.”
“You didn’t make it easy. If I recall, you were exceedingly distracting that evening.”
“We had the box all to ourselves,” he said. “What did you expect? Your sweet charms are the source of all beauty, / and every fair wonder springs from you. / Only he who has known / your ardent embrace knows what love is.”
“I didn’t realize you were so familiar with the libretto.”
“Only that particular aria.”
Our eyes met and a delicious heat passed between us. Sadly, a piercing, high-pitched squeal extinguished it.
“I’m so pleased to have found you all!” Birgit marched across the room, took Cécile and Ursula by their arms, and dragged them toward us.
“Where are Felix and Kaspar?” I asked.
“I abandoned them,” she said. “They decided to hike to the Marienbrücke and I wasn’t about to get embroiled in such a ridiculous outing.” The steel bridge, built by Ludwig II, spanned the nearby Pöllat Gorge and a spectacular waterfall. It provided breathtaking views of the castle, but I suspected the gentlemen were less interested in that than in pushing through the snow and proving their virility to each other on the slick metal high above the ground. “I hope they fall on the ice and break their heads. I wasn’t about to trek through all that snow. I’m tired of this ridiculous place. There must be somewhere comfortable I can sit until it’s time to meet up in the courtyard.”
“I know just the spot in the king’s study and shall take you there,” Ursula said, waving at her to come. “We’ll see the rest of you at two o’clock. Don’t be late. I promised the caretaker we’d be out by then.”
“She must be pleased to have an excuse to abandon our tour,” I said after they’d left. “It was generous of her to bring us despite despising the place.”
“It is very like Ursula,” Cécile said. “She’s always loved the complicated, the difficult. She despises many things but often pulls them close to her nonetheless. It tells me she does not define despise as you and I do.”
“When did her husband die?” I asked.
“Eons ago. It was neither a happy marriage nor a long one. They lived separately nearly all of the time. This was frowned upon by their families, naturellement, but when one is unhappy…” She shrugged. “I never met him.”
“Never?” Colin asked.
“Is it so strange that I should not meet a man of so little consequence to my friend? I had no interest in his acquaintance. Understand, I do not suggest he was cruel. The marriage was arranged by their parents, and the couple had nothing in common. Each sought their pleasure elsewhere, in love and in everything else.”
“A situation not altogether unusual,” Colin said.
“Not everyone has the good fortune to be married to a man like you, Monsieur Hargreaves. It is the tragedy of womanhood.”
We meandered through the rest of the handful of rooms that were accessible to the public. Much of the rest of the castle was off-limits; it had never been completed, the project abandoned after Ludwig’s death. I wondered what he would think of the bare walls and empty spaces. Would there ever be another person with the passion—and fortune—necessary to restart work? I couldn’t imagine it would happen, not given the size of the structure and its location. Merely getting supplies to Neuschwanstein would be a challenge, and to what end? It wasn’t a place anyone would want to live. From a distance, it was exquisite, but inside there was no warmth, only cold, impersonal beauty held in check by the lingering and oppressive scent of tragedy.
By the time we made our way back to the ground floor, I was more than ready to leave. I fastened my coat, pulled on my gloves, and secured my hat firmly on my head before we headed for the courtyard to meet the others.
The day was frigid, and clouds had gathered in clumps over the mountains. A bitter wind bit through my clothing. I shivered. My teeth chattered. Then snow began to fall, the most ethereal snow I’d ever seen, and I forgot the cold altogether. The flakes were enormous, but delicate like lace. I tilted my head back, caught one on my tongue, and laughed. Despite its many contradictions and problems, Ludwig had achieved something transcendent in this place. All at once, my uneasiness with it all evaporated and fantasy swirled around me. What was real, what imagined no longer mattered. Neuschwanstein had caught me in its magic.
The spell was broken when Cécile slipped on an icy patch of the courtyard’s smooth stones. Colin nimbly caught her before she fell.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“Perfectly fine, better than before, if you must know,” she said. “All you need now is gleaming armor, Monsieur Hargreaves, and you can be my knight.”
“He’ll also require a noble steed,” I said, “preferably white.”
We all laughed, but I admit to rather taking to the image of my husband in the guise of medieval warrior, ready to right all the wrongs in the world. I’ve never fancied being rescued and shall always prefer to take matters into my own hands, but on occasion, one can be seduced by the idea of being swept away by a capable gentleman. A voice shattered my reverie.
“Hargreaves!” Felix shouted from below. “We’re in the lower courtyard!”
We started toward the stairs that would take us to them, Colin between Cécile and me, with a firm grip on our arms, but before we took three steps, a gunshot shattered the mystical calm of the snow, clapping against the limestone-clad walls. Someone shouted. Colin dropped our arms and ran to Kaspar, who’d collapsed on the ground in an indecorous heap.