Ludwig’s tutor, the Count de LarosÉe, has expressed his conception of his pupil’s character in the following words: “The Crown Prince is intelligent and highly gifted. He is already possessed of abilities which far exceed the ordinary. His imagination is so vivid, that I have seldom seen its equal in so young a man; but he is hasty and exceedingly quick-tempered. A more than strongly developed wilfulness points to a stubbornness of character which is perhaps inherited from his grandfather, and which it will be difficult for him to control.” This “character” was written out by the Count on the day upon which Ludwig filled his eighteenth year, and on the tutor’s retirement from his responsible position.

The Crown Prince had not merely inherited his grandfather’s obstinacy, but resembled in other ways his father’s father and his own namesake. Like him he was an idealist and SchwÄrmer, with distinct leanings towards Æstheticism.

Henrik Ibsen, in his play of Ghosts, allows the characteristics of the progenitor to show themselves already in the first generation. This is not commonly the case. Far more frequently do the good and the bad “family ghosts” come out in the second generation; and it may almost be said that there are daily proofs that the son has more often the faults and good qualities of his grandsire than of his sire. Such was the case with Crown Prince Ludwig. To his careful, intelligent, and conscientious father he had indeed little resemblance; but his grandfather, the eccentric, stubborn, enthusiastic Ludwig I., “walked” in the grandson—not indeed “over again,” as the saying is, but in a new edition, changed in various ways though in other points easily recognisable. On his mother’s side there was also an enthusiast in the family. Friedrich Wilhelm IV. of Prussia was Queen Marie of Bavaria’s first cousin, the son of her sister. There was in Ludwig’s tastes and turn of mind much that resembled this Prussian King, who in contrast to the greater number of the Hohenzollerns took a greater interest in science and art than in the profession of arms. But, nevertheless, Ludwig II. was unique in his way. He was a peculiar, strange figure in the midst of his immediate surroundings—an enigma to his own race, as he was to his own people! He seems rather to have belonged to another race than to the Teutonic one, and another age than the nineteenth century. There are traits in his character which lead our thoughts back to the times of Greek and Roman antiquity. In his instincts and his passions he was closely allied to the Roman Emperor Hadrian. In one respect, however, he was very modern, namely in his love of a mountain life. He loved the alps; and it is characteristic of this shy King, who would hardly undertake a journey that was not to his pleasure palaces, that he repeatedly visited the alpine country par excellence, namely, Switzerland.

He inherited from both his parents his delight in the mountains. The royal family were in the habit of spending the summers at Schloss Hohenschwangau, in the Bavarian highlands, not far from Munich. This was in reality an old castle, built a thousand years back in time, but entirely reconstructed by Maximilian when he was Crown Prince.1

Many historical reminiscences and legends are connected with the castle, whose halls are filled with memorials of days gone by, and whose walls are decorated with pictures of Lohengrin and the swan in every conceivable aspect. It is said that Hohenschwangau provided TannhÄuser with a night’s shelter when he was returning from his pilgrimage to Rome. Martin Luther, too, during the time of the Reformation, when he was in need and danger, is supposed to have sought refuge in this castle, which is also known by the name of the Wartburg of Bavaria.

King Maximilian felt himself in better health after he had spent the summer there, and with his wife, who was a bold climber, was in the habit of going walking tours in the neighbouring country. Hohenschwangau was the Queen’s favourite place of residence. She was unassuming, and exceedingly simple in her tastes, the charming Marie finding her greatest pleasure in housewifely occupations. On tablecloths which she had woven herself, she served fish caught by her own hands. When in the country she was in the habit of going about in a large kitchen apron, she dusted her own china and ornaments, and took an innocent pleasure in washing up the used coffee-cups. Moreover, she caused to be fitted up at Hohenschwangau, a spinning-room in which she diligently turned her wheel for the benefit of the poor of the neighbourhood.

To their son Ludwig these visits were also a source of pleasure, albeit in a manner differing from that of the other members of the family. The great solitude had the effect on the boy’s impressionable mind of a release from oppressive chains. Here, with his romantic disposition, the child found food for his vivid imagination; here he could dream himself into the legendary lore of olden days, and give free rein to his longing for the marvellous. On the quiet paths he could immerse himself in the German classics, chiefly in the works of Schiller, which spoke in living words to his heart and mind, and he would at times spend half a day in declaiming the resounding verses of his favourite poet.

Strictly as he was brought up by his parents, he was at times left too much to himself. He would withdraw in his free hours to solitude and give himself up to day-dreams. “How dull your Royal Highness must find the want of occupation,” said his tutor, Dean von DÖllinger, to him one day when he found him sitting alone in a dark room on account of a slight eye affection. “Why do you not let some one read aloud to you?” “I am not dull,” answered the Prince, “I am thinking out different things, and I amuse myself very well in this manner.”

There are strange contrasts in Ludwig’s character; on the one side a yearning to escape from humanity, with its unnatural and stilted aspects, to unalloyed nature, to the stillness, the prayerful solemnity of solitude; on the other, even in his early years, an enthusiastic love of plastic art, combined with a delight in effective representations, for artificial brilliancy and pomp. So much, indeed, was this the case, that the thought cannot but arise in the mind that he was intended rather for the stage than for a throne. The life of the human community seemed to have no particular interest, and still less attraction, for him. He stood uncomprehending, and in a measure uncomprehended, before even the circle in which he lived.

But the serious moment was approaching. He had filled his eighteenth year; duties and responsibilities awaited him. He was now about to step out into public life.