After the reading of this proclamation the Grand Duke of Baden stepped forward and cried in a loud voice, “Long live King William, the German Emperor!” and an exultant shout burst from the great assembly. Tears rolled down the cheeks of the aged sovereign and his stately form was visibly shaken with emotion. The Crown Prince was the first to do homage to the newly made Emperor by kissing his hand, but the father clasped his son in his arms and kissed him repeatedly. He also embraced his brother Charles and his cousin, Admiral Adalbert, his brother-in-law, the Grand Duke of Weimar, and his son-in-law the Grand Duke of Baden, after which he was saluted in turn by the other princes and the rest of the assemblage, for each of whom he had a kindly word. As the Emperor departed from the royal palace of the Bourbons the banner of the Hohenzollerns was lowered and the German Imperial ensign floated out upon the breeze. Thus was this great act consummated amid the thunder of guns that shook the capital of France and woke so mighty an echo in the heart of the Fatherland.
The war was continued for a time, but after the destruction of the armies of the Loire and of the north the guns about Paris were silent, and on January 29, 1871, the Emperor sent the following telegram to his wife from Versailles:
“Last night a three weeks’ truce was signed. All troops in Paris are prisoners of war. The Provisional Government guarantees to maintain order. We occupy all forts. Paris remains in a state of siege and must provide for itself. All arms to be surrendered. A Constituent Assembly will be elected to meet at Bordeaux in fourteen days. This is the reward of our people for their patriotism, their sacrifices and heroic courage. I thank God for all His mercies. May peace soon follow!”
“Last night a three weeks’ truce was signed. All troops in Paris are prisoners of war. The Provisional Government guarantees to maintain order. We occupy all forts. Paris remains in a state of siege and must provide for itself. All arms to be surrendered. A Constituent Assembly will be elected to meet at Bordeaux in fourteen days. This is the reward of our people for their patriotism, their sacrifices and heroic courage. I thank God for all His mercies. May peace soon follow!”
The Emperor’s prayer was soon to be granted, for on the twenty-fifth of February the Empress received the following message:
“With a glad and thankful heart I am able to inform you that the preliminaries of peace have just been arranged. Now there is only the consent of the National Assembly at Bordeaux to be obtained.“William.”
“With a glad and thankful heart I am able to inform you that the preliminaries of peace have just been arranged. Now there is only the consent of the National Assembly at Bordeaux to be obtained.
“William.”
In a letter dated March 2, 1871, he writes:
“I have just ratified the treaty of peace. Thus far the great work is finished which seven months of victorious warfare has made possible, thanks to the bravery and endurance of the army in all its branches and the willing sacrifices of the Fatherland. The Lord of Hosts has blessed our undertaking and led to this honorable peace. To Him be the glory! To the army and the Fatherland my deepest and most heart-felt thanks!”
“I have just ratified the treaty of peace. Thus far the great work is finished which seven months of victorious warfare has made possible, thanks to the bravery and endurance of the army in all its branches and the willing sacrifices of the Fatherland. The Lord of Hosts has blessed our undertaking and led to this honorable peace. To Him be the glory! To the army and the Fatherland my deepest and most heart-felt thanks!”
It was indeed an honorable peace, won by a series of victories unparalleled in the world’s history. Alsace and Lorraine, formerly torn by France from Germany when enfeebled by internal warfare, were restored to her, Strassburg once more mirrored her cathedral spires in the waters of a German Rhine, and five milliards of francs were also to be paid by France as indemnity for the expenses of the war.
On the sixteenth of June the victorious troops made their entry into Berlin amid celebrations even more imposing than those of 1866. The whole length of the Sieges strasse, through which the troops passed, a distance of almost a mile, was bordered with cannon captured from the French, while non-commissioned officers from each regiment, decorated with the Iron Cross, carried eighty-one French eagles and standards. A continuous ovation greeted the Emperor, his generals, and the troops all along the line of march. The celebration of the victory found a fitting climax in the unveiling of the monument to Frederick William Third in the Lustgarten, at the foot of which his son could lay the trophies of a glorious and successful war, and as the head of a newly restored and powerful German Empire consecrate the fulfilment of his trust.
Innumerable anecdotes are told of the personal relations between the Emperor William and his soldiers, a few of which may be given as helping to throw light on the portrait of this great yet kindly sovereign.
After the battle of Mars-la-Tour, the country all about was strewn with dead and wounded soldiers. It was only with the greatest difficulty that a small room was found for the King’s use, containing a bed, a table, and a chair. As he entered it he asked:
“Where are Bismarck and Moltke lodged?”
“Nowhere as yet,” replied the adjutant, well knowing how needful rest was to them also.
“Then ask them to come and camp here with me,” said the King. “You may take away the bed—it will be needed by the wounded—and have some straw and blankets brought here; they will do very well for us.”
And so it chanced that the three old comrades spent a rainy night together on the straw; nor was it the only time during this hard and cruel war.
* * * * * * * *
The day after the victory of Gravelotte, as King William was returning to Pont-à-Mousson, he passed through the village of Gorze. The Commander-in-chief was greeted everywhere with the wildest enthusiasm, even by the wounded, with whom the little town was filled. Among the latter was Captain von Zedtwitz. He was lodged with an old soldier Antoine, who had lost a leg at Magenta and who with his little daughter nursed and cared for the desperately wounded officer as well as he was able. When the captain heard the shouts outside, and learned that King William was passing through Gorze, he insisted on sending a greeting to his sovereign likewise. He asked one of the musicians to deliver to the Commander-in-chief a pure white rose with the message: “A wounded officer who can scarcely live through another day, sends this rose to Your Majesty, in memory of Gravelotte!” The King bade his coachman stop. Deeply moved, he took the rose and fastened it in his buttonhole. Then, after asking the name of the thoughtful donor and sending his hearty thanks with wishes for a speedy recovery, went on his way. After a long and tedious illness the captain finally recovered, but was no longer fit for active service. In recognition of his services to the Fatherland he was given the position of district commander in Halberstadt. He had long since forgotten the rose of Gorze, but the Emperor had a good memory where his faithful soldiers were concerned, as Captain von Zedtwitz was to discover. On Christmas Day, 1871, he received a box containing a magnificent oil painting depicting a monument on which were inscribed the words “Gorze, August 19, 1870.” A German flag half covered the monument, at the foot of which was an infantry helmet decorated with an Iron Cross and encircled by a laurel leaf. At the top of the heavy gold frame gleamed a massive silver rose. Accompanying this gift was the following note in the Emperor’s own handwriting:
“In grateful remembrance of that never-to-be-forgotten day in Gorze when you, desperately wounded, sent me a rose from your couch of pain as I, unknowing, was passing by. May the accompanying picture serve as a lasting token of your devotion to your sovereign and his gratitude to you. Christmas, 1871.“William I. R.“December 22, 1871.”
“In grateful remembrance of that never-to-be-forgotten day in Gorze when you, desperately wounded, sent me a rose from your couch of pain as I, unknowing, was passing by. May the accompanying picture serve as a lasting token of your devotion to your sovereign and his gratitude to you. Christmas, 1871.
“William I. R.
“December 22, 1871.”
* * * * * * * *
After the battle of Sedan the King’s headquarters were at Clermont, with a regiment of Bavarian cavalry in guard. The men had had a long, hard march in the rain that day, and their commanding officer, feeling ill, despatched his orderly in search of some wine. It was forbidden to ask for supplies at headquarters, so the colonel gave him a thaler and charged him to buy it somewhere. On reaching the marketplace the trooper discovered a large tavern, before the door of which stood two Prussian staff orderlies who, as he approached, motioned him to pass on. With the thaler in his hand, however, the Bavarian felt himself as good as any one, so he marched boldly up to the door of the inn and knocked loudly. For some time there was no response, but at length it was opened by an elderly officer, who asked him what he wanted.
“My colonel is sick and must have a flask of wine,” replied the orderly.
“In just a moment, my son!” said the old man with a kindly smile, and disappeared within the house, but soon returned with a flask which he handed to the other, saying, “Here is what your colonel needs. I hope it will do him good.”
The Bavarian took the wine in his left hand, still grasping the thaler in his right. What should he do? He was not allowed to accept anything without paying for it, neither could he offer money to an officer. At length the old man, perceiving his embarrassment, inquired whether his colonel had given him any other commission. Whereupon the honest fellow explained his difficulty, at the same time attempting to thrust the thaler into the old man’s hand. But the latter only waved him away, saying:
“Never mind that, my good man, but hurry back to your colonel with the wine, and say the King of Prussia sends it to him with wishes for a speedy recovery.”
“The King of Prussia!” repeated the Bavarian in bewilderment. “Where is the King of Prussia, then?”
“I am he,” replied the old man, and shut the door.
The colonel was anxiously waiting his orderly’s return, but looked very grave when he laid the thaler on the table beside the flask.
“You fool!” he cried angrily, “did I not tell you not to make any requisition?”
“But I did not, sir,” replied the fellow with a grin. “There was an old man at the tavern who said he was the King of Prussia; he gave me the flask and wished you a quick recovery.”
“What is that!” cried the colonel in great excitement. “From the King of Prussia, did you say?” and he gazed with astonishment at the good monarch’s gift. With awe he lifted the first glass to his thirsty lips, thinking to himself, “This is from the King of Prussia,” but as the last drop disappeared he shouted aloud in a burst of enthusiasm, “Long live King William!”
* * * * * * * *
One day during the siege of Paris, as the King was visiting the outposts, he discovered a fusileer deeply absorbed in a letter, his weapon on the ground at his feet and apparently quite oblivious to his duties. Roused by the sound of hoofs and recognizing his commander-in-chief, he hastily dropped the letter, took up his gun, and presented arms. The King rode up to him and said, smiling:
“A letter from the sweetheart at home, no doubt, my son!”
“No, sire,” replied the terrified soldier; “it is from my mother.”
Somewhat doubtful of the truth of these words, the King looked sternly at him and asked to see it.
“Certainly, Your Majesty,” replied the soldier, and quickly picking up the letter he handed it to his chief. The King read it through, glanced kindly at the fusileer, and told his adjutant to take the man’s name, then rode on. The letterwasfrom the man’s mother, telling of his sister’s approaching marriage and the sorrow of all there that he could not be present.
The next day the fusileer was ordered to appear before his captain, and he obeyed the summons with an anxious heart, thinking to himself, “Now I am undone! This means at least eight days’ arrest for neglect of duty.” Great was his surprise, therefore, when the captain informed him that by the King’s orders he had been granted fourteen days’ leave to attend his sister’s wedding, and that free transportation there and back would be furnished him. The overjoyed soldier was soon on the train bound for his distant home, where a joyous welcome waited his unexpected arrival. When the wedding guests heard the story of the letter, they all clinked glasses joyfully and drank to the King’s health with a rousing cheer.
* * * * * * * *
A grenadier of the First Regiment of Guards was also one of the gardeners at Babelsberg. The Emperor arriving there unexpectedly one day, this man was sent to accompany him about the park to point out the various improvements. The Emperor was much pleased with his intelligent conversation, but presently noticed that he began to be very uneasy and even looked at the time, which was not considered proper in the presence of the sovereign.
“What is the matter, young man?” he asked.
“Well, Your Majesty,” replied the other, “this is my first year of volunteer service, in the First Regiment of Guards, and my captain is very strict. I am due at the barracks in three-quarters of an hour, and it is impossible for me to get there now except with the utmost haste. I shall be late unless Your Majesty will be so gracious as to release me.”
Much pleased with his gardener’s punctuality, the Emperor sent him to don his uniform with all speed and ordered his carriage to be brought around immediately. Then motioning to the grenadier to take the seat beside him, they set off for the town with a gallop. The company was already in line as the carriage drew up at the barracks, but the Emperor spoke to the captain in person, explaining that it was his fault that the man was late and asking that he should not be punished.
* * * * * * * *
Still another instance of King William’s unfailing kindness and consideration to all classes is shown in the following incident. At a grand review held on the field of Tempelhof, the Emperor’s sharp eyes suddenly discovered a sergeant-major who could scarcely stand upright and whose deathly pallor betrayed either serious illness or some violent emotion. He rode up at once to the man and asked what ailed him.
“It is nothing, Your Majesty, I am better already,” was the answer; but the tears in the eyes of the bearded soldier belied his words. The Emperor’s gaze rested on his pale face with fatherly kindness and he said encouragingly,
“Do not try to conceal anything from me, sergeant; you too wear the Iron Cross, so we are brothers in arms, and comrades should have no secrets from each other.”
Unable to resist this exhortation, the sergeant responded,
“Alas, Your Majesty, just now as we were marching out here, my only child, a promising boy of six, was run over by a wagon, and I do not know what has become of him.”
The Emperor immediately sent an adjutant to appropriate one of the near-by conveyances occupied by spectators for the use of the sergeant, whom he excused for the rest of the day, and the anxious father with tears of gratitude in his eyes hastened home to his family.
* * * * * * * *
A touching trait of the Emperor’s character is shown in his habit of making the rounds of the hospitals in time of war to assure himself personally that his wounded subjects were receiving the necessary care, and cheer them with a kindly word of encouragement or some slight gift. In the bloody year of 1866 the Woman’s Aid Society built a private hospital in Berlin, which King William frequently honored with his presence. Among the patients was a musketeer who had lost his left arm.
“Your Majesty,” said this man one day to the King, “I am twenty-four years old to-day. To have had the happiness of seeing the King on my birthday—I shall never forget it, sire!”
“Nor shall I, my brave fellow,” replied the King, giving his hand to the soldier, who kissed it with deep emotion. The King passed on from bed to bed, but just as he was about to leave he said to his suite, “I must see that man again whose birthday it is,” and returning to the musketeer’s cot he talked with him for some time. That night, after the invalid was asleep and dreaming of his sovereign, one of the royal huntsmen appeared with a gold watch and chain, sent by the King as a remembrance of the day. The lucky man was often asked where he got this fine watch.
“Guess!” he would always say, and after the inquisitive questioner had tried in vain to solve the riddle, he would shout with a beaming face: “It is from my King, my good King William!”
* * * * * * * *
Once while the King was visiting the hospital at Versailles with the Crown Prince and several of his generals, they came to the cot of a Silesian militiaman who had had his right leg amputated and been shot in the right shoulder also. When asked what his injuries were, he replied:
“I have lost my right leg, Your Majesty, which troubles me much, for now I shall not be able to go on to Paris with the rest of the army. And besides that the churls have shot me here in the shoulder.”
Every one laughed, and the King said: “Cheer up, my son! You shall have a new leg and enter Paris with us yet.”
“That may be, sire,” declared the simple-hearted Silesian, “but I can never win the Iron Cross now.”
Again there was a laugh; but the Crown Prince laid his hand on the brave fellow’s head, saying,
“You shall have that too, my man,” and the King quietly nodded assent and passed on, his eyes moist with tears.
* * * * * * * *
On another cot at this same hospital lay a pale young infantryman. The physician had given him a sleeping potion which had brought temporary forgetfulness of his sufferings. As the Emperor stood quietly looking down at him, his eye fell on an album which the invalid had evidently been reading when sleep overtook him. He picked it up and wrote in pencil on one of the pages, “My son, always remember your King,” then laid it back on the bed and passed on. When the wounded man awoke and found his sovereign’s greeting, tears of joy streamed down his cheeks and he pressed the precious writing to his lips, sobbing. On the Emperor’s next visit he saw, by the deathly pallor of the wounded infantryman, that death was near and the poor fellow was past all aid or comfort. But the soul had not yet left the body, a gleam of consciousness still lingered in the fast-glazing eyes, and he recognized the Emperor standing beside him. The half-closed eyelids opened wide, and with a last supreme effort the dying man lifted himself and cried out,
“Yes, I will remember Your Majesty, even up above!” then fell back lifeless on his cot.
“Amen!” murmured the Emperor, and he gently closed the eyes of the young hero who had died so true a soldier’s death.
We have already had glimpses of Emperor William’s domestic affairs at the time of his marriage and when the birth and education of their children brought new duties to the august parents. After the wars were over and our hero had more time and opportunity to enjoy the pleasures of home, he took the greatest delight in his grandchildren, the sons and daughters of the Crown Prince. Of these his special favorite was the eldest, who in turn had the greatest affection and reverence for his grandfather. In this Prince Frederick William—or William, as he was called after reaching his majority, by the Emperor’s express command—the latter beheld the future heir to the throne, and watched over his education, therefore, with the greatest care; inculcating in him, above all things, the true German spirit of devotion to the Fatherland, a deep appreciation of the army, which had been so largely his own creation, and lastly a boundless faith in that Providence which had so often proved his best help in time of need.
On the ninth of February, 1877, he placed his grandson in the First Regiment of Foot Guards. “Now go on and do your duty!” was the conclusion of his address to the Prince on that occasion, and these few words expressed the ruling purpose of his own life,—a career that offered such a noble example to the young soldiers. Without fear or hesitation he had always done his duty faithfully, and thereby won fame and greatness for his house, his people, and all Germany.
His grandfather’s injunctions proved a powerful incentive to Prince William. A true Hohenzollern from head to heel, he has devoted himself heart and soul to the army, following in the footsteps of the two heroic figures that were so near and dear to him. Both father and grandfather watched with deepest pride and interest the quick advancement of the young officer, whose military career must often have reminded the Emperor of his own youth.
It was a great satisfaction to the aged monarch that he was spared to witness his favorite’s marriage to the charming Princess Augusta Victoria of Schleswig-Holstein, which took place February 27, 1881; and still greater was his happiness when on May 6, 1882, a son was born to the young couple. This was God’s crowning mercy! Four generations,—the patriarch whose eighty-five years had indeed bleached his hair and furrowed his brow, but with bodily and mental vigor still unimpaired; the noble grandfather, a magnificent figure in the nation’s history, sound of heart and ripe in experience; the young father, in the first flush of manly vigor, with a long and brilliant future before him; and last, the infant son, grandson, and great-grandson just opening his eyes to a conscious existence. It is not hard to understand the feeling of exultation in which, at news of the happy event, the Emperor shouted, “Hurrah! four Kings!”
But, alas! this bright promise of a smiling future was soon to be darkened by a cloud so thick and heavy that it threatened to overwhelm the stanch old hero who had stood fast through so many of the storms of life. Early in the year 1887 symptoms of an alarming throat trouble began to show themselves in the Crown Prince. At first it was considered merely an obstinate attack of hoarseness, but it soon became evident that a much worse and more dangerous malady was to be reckoned with. All that was within human power and skill to accomplish was resorted to. The most celebrated authorities on diseases of the throat were consulted, the most healthful resorts of Europe tried, but in vain. All possible measures for relief were powerless. The whole country was grief-stricken, nor was the public sorrow confined to Germany alone. All seemed to see the noble figure of the Crown Prince shouting to his men at Königgrätz, “Forward, in God’s name, or all is lost!” or leading his army from victory to victory in the war with France, and now stricken with an insidious disease that slowly but surely sapped away his life. Nor did they feel less for the afflicted father, waiting anxiously for news from San Remo of his beloved son and heir. It was indeed a dark shadow on our hero’s otherwise bright evening of life!
In these days the Emperor clung more fondly than ever to his daughter, the Grand Duchess of Baden, and her devoted husband. At least once a year when visiting the springs at Ems or Gastein he had always been in the habit of spending a few days with them, and these visits were bright spots in the old man’s life. Here for a brief time he was “off duty”; free from the daily burden and pressing cares of state, among his loved ones, and surrounded by that tender care that only a loving daughter can bestow. He was always happy at these times, chatting in his friendly way with great and small, and rejoicing at any opportunity of giving pleasure to others.
Once, soon after the war, when he was staying at Ems, a bookseller there had his show window decorated with pictures of the Emperor. As the latter was passing the shop one day, he saw a crowd of boys gathered about the window. Stepping up to them he asked, “What is here, children? What do you like best of all these pretty things? Which would you rather have? Tell me.”
The boys looked at him and at one another in confusion and did not know what to answer, till at last one lively urchin helped them out of their dilemma by shouting, “I will buy the German Emperor!”
“Good!” replied the Emperor, “you shall all have him. How many are there of you?” He counted the boys, then went into the shop and bought a number of the pictures, which he distributed among them.
Another favorite diversion of Emperor William was hunting, and he often went in the fall or winter to shoot at Letzlingen, Hubertsstock, or elsewhere. Once at the Count von Stolberg-Wernigerode’s, they had had a successful day, and the Emperor had distinguished himself, for he was an excellent marksman. When the game was counted, it was announced that the sovereign’s share was twenty-eight, whereat His Majesty smiled roguishly and remarked to his companions:
“These results remind me of the quotation ‘There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in our philosophy’—for is it not a marvel that I should have shot twenty-eight pieces of game and only fired twenty-five cartridges?”
All the Emperor’s servants had the deepest respect and affection for him, and with good reason, for never was there a more kind and generous master, continually making them presents and never forgetting to bring back some little gift when he went on a journey. His dependents were always treated with the greatest kindness and indulgence and never received a harsh word, yet they never failed to feel that he was the master. One evening he went to the Victoria Theatre alone, accompanied only by the coachman and ajäger, the latter of whom betook himself to a restaurant across the street as soon as his master had alighted. Whether the play did not please His Majesty, or what the reason was, does not signify, but he left the theatre again after about a quarter of an hour. The carriage was there, but nojäger. The Emperor must wait. At a sign from the coachman one of the theatre attendants ran to fetch the delinquent, who, terrified, began to stammer out excuses with trembling lips. But the Emperor only remarked quietly, “Why make so much of the matter? You must often have been obliged to wait for me, now for once I have waited for you; so we are quits. Open the carriage door for me!”
At another time, when he was suffering from a severe cold, his physician, Dr. von Lauer, had carefully prepared, besides the necessary medicines, a tea for use during the night to allay his cough, and shown the attendant exactly how much of the liquid should be warmed and given to the patient at each coughing-spell. When he made his morning visit, he was joyfully informed by the faithful old servant that his master had had a quiet night. Much relieved, the physician entered his patient’s sleeping chamber, but a glance at the worn face and another at the empty teapot made him doubt the accuracy of the information he had just received. The Emperor answered the unspoken question himself, however.
“I have coughed a great deal, doctor,” he said, “and slept but little”; then added, in answer to the physician’s glance, “I took the tea several times but did not ring for my valet. The old man needs his sleep, so I warmed the drink myself over the spirit lamp.”
It was this same old servant who once declared, “I have been for forty years with my royal master and have yet to hear him give an order or speak a harsh word. With His Majesty it is always ‘Please’ and ‘Thank you,’ never anything else.”
This very regard and consideration for others may have proved fatal to himself, for on the night of March 3, 1888, when obliged to leave his bed for a short time, instead of summoning his servant, as Dr. von Lauer had repeatedly charged him to do on such occasions, he let the old man sleep and attempted to get up by himself; but a sudden faintness seized him and he sank helpless on the floor. By the time the valet had come to his assistance the Emperor was chilled through and unable, so says the Berlin “Court Chronicle,” to show himself at the window the following day. He begged the valet, however, to say nothing of this to the physician.
Yet in spite of his leniency, the Emperor was too thorough a soldier not to be a strict disciplinarian also. His slightest nod was equivalent to a command with his dependents, and a reproof therefore was seldom necessary. If anything went wrong he would merely say quietly, “That is not the way I care to have things done,” and this simple remark was more effective than a string of oaths would have proved from another. But if their royal master’s admonition was “This shall not be done,” then the whole household trembled.
It was also characteristic of the Emperor that he never remembered a fault or laid it up against the offender. If the kindly expression gave place to sternness for the time, it was never long until his usual cheerful serenity returned; while if he himself had erred or given an undeserved rebuke, he was quick to acknowledge it and ask pardon.
Once in the seventies, while staying at the grand-ducal court of Schwerin, a visit had been planned to the Court Theatre, at that time under the direction of the Intendant Baron von Wolzogen, and the Grand Duke had ordered a special armchair to be placed in the royal box for the august guest. As expected, the Emperor made his appearance that evening at the theatre. It was devoted to light comedy, of which he was especially fond; but as he seated himself, sitting down somewhat heavily, as was his custom, the chair that had been provided for him gave way, and he found himself for a moment on the floor, though fortunately unhurt. In the audience the accident was scarcely noticed; but to the Intendant, who anxiously hastened to the box, His Majesty said shortly and coldly:
“In future, when you receive guests, see to it that at least they are not given disabled chairs,” and turned quickly away without giving the mortified Intendant any opportunity for excuses. As it chanced, however, the providing of the chair had not been intrusted to him, but to the Court Chamberlain. During the next intermission, therefore, the Emperor sent for the Intendant and greeted him kindly with the words:
“My dear Baron, I did you an injustice just now; my reprimand was directed to the wrong address, as I have learned in the meantime. I am sorry and wanted to tell you so this evening, so we should both sleep the better.”
“The days of our years are threescore and ten years; and if by reason of strength they be fourscore, yet is their strength labor and sorrow.” So sings the Psalmist, and thus it was with the life of Emperor William,—a ceaseless round of toil and weariness, of care and struggle, that reached its climax in those astounding victories that strengthened the throne of Prussia and brought about the unification of Germany. Even in his old age he was not permitted to end his days quietly, as we have seen, but still devoted his whole time and strength to the welfare of the Fatherland, nobly striving to maintain peace both at home and abroad. He had lived to see Germany a free and united Empire once more, with a position among the nations of the earth she had never before attained, and might well say with Simeon, “Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace,” were it not for the war clouds that still hung about the horizon, and had the Crown Prince stood beside him in all his old health and vigor, ready to take the reins of government from his hands. This was the great sorrow that clouded his declining years and caused him painful anxiety as to the future in view of his own death, which could not now be far distant. The Emperor naturally possessed a powerful constitution, strengthened by the regular life he led and his freedom from early excesses of all kinds. An occasional cold, or attack of a painful but not at all serious ailment to which he had been subject for many years, would confine him to his room or bed for a short time, but except for this he had enjoyed excellent health. But having reached an age far beyond that usually allotted to mortals, it was not strange that during his latter years, whenever it was announced that His Majesty was ill, the physicians’ daily reports were anxiously awaited, or that when the aged monarch again appeared at the familiar corner window of his palace he was greeted with cheers by the assembled crowds, while the solemn tones of the “Heil Dir, im Siegerkranz,” swelled up into the sky.
It was on Friday, March 2, 1888, that the Emperor drove out for the last time. There was an icy north wind blowing in Berlin that day, and he contracted a cold which, in his already somewhat enfeebled health, he was unable to throw off. His physical condition was aggravated, too, by anxiety over the political situation and his son’s illness; and when in addition to this news was received of the sudden death of a favorite grandson, Prince Louis of Baden, the shock was too great for the old man to recover from. On Monday, March 5, his condition was far from encouraging, and on the following day it became even more critical. A sleepless night greatly reduced the patient’s strength, and on Thursday, toward evening, he sank into a death-like stupor, from which, except for one or two brief intervals of consciousness, he never rallied. At half-past eight the following morning, March 9, the soul of the aged hero, the father of the Fatherland, passed quietly away into the land of eternal peace.
During the Emperor’s last hours the members of his family, together with some of the highest court officials, were gathered round his bedside. On Thursday afternoon, at the suggestion of Prince William, the dying man was asked if he would like to see the Court Chaplain, Dr. Kögel, and on his assenting the divine was sent for. After a few words of greeting to his royal master, in which he expressed the sympathy of the whole people, he recited some passages of Scripture, and at the sick man’s request a few verses of some of his favorite hymns, followed by a prayer, the Emperor now and then responding clearly, with an expression of satisfaction or assent. From seven till ten o’clock that evening there seemed a marked improvement, during which the august patient conversed cheerfully with Prince William. The greater part of the family, feeling much encouraged, permitted themselves a few hours of sleep. Toward four o’clock in the morning, however, symptoms of collapse showed themselves. He became unconscious again, and it was evident that death was near. The family and watchers were hastily summoned and Dr. Kögel again sent for. He recited the Lord’s Prayer, Her Majesty the Empress joining in, and then read the twenty-seventh Psalm, beginning “The Lord is my light and my salvation.” When he had finished, the Grand Duchess of Baden, who had hastened to her father’s bedside at the first news of his illness, leaned over and asked: “Did you understand, Papa?”
The Emperor answered clearly, “It was beautiful.”
She then asked: “Do you know that Mamma is sitting here beside you, holding your hand?”
The dying man’s eyes opened and he looked long at the Empress, then closed them for the last time. His parting look was for her, but his last sigh for the beloved son, stricken unto death and in a foreign land, as was evident from the touching cry, “Alas, my poor Fritz!”
When life was extinct, all present knelt while Dr. Kögel offered a prayer, concluding with the supplication, “O Lord, have mercy on our royal house, our people, and our country, and in the death of the Emperor may Thy words be fulfilled, ‘I will bless thee, and thou shalt prove a blessing.’ Amen.”
The excitement throughout the country at the news of Emperor William’s death was tremendous. Bells were tolled from every church spire, flags hung at half mast or were wrapped in crape, while hundreds of sad-faced people wandered into the churches to pray or seek comfort in the words of the priests.
The Emperor’s deathbed
The Emperor’s deathbed
On the night of March 11 the earthly remains of the deceased Emperor were taken from the palace to the cathedral, where they were to lie in state. In spite of a heavy wind and snowstorm the Unter den Linden was so thronged with people that progress was impossible, and the police had hard work to keep the way clear, yet the most solemn stillness prevailed. At five minutes before twelve the regular tramp of marching troops was heard and torchbearers were seen issuing from the palace. The soldiers took their places, Colonel von Bredow with a squadron of the body-guard being in charge of the arrangements, and formed a solid wall on both sides of the street from the palace to the cathedral, long crape streamers falling from the plumes on their helmets.
At midnight the bells of the cathedral began to toll, and an hour later the head of the procession appeared, advancing slowly between a double line of torches, led by the first division of the body-guard under Colonel von Bredow. Behind these at some distance was a battalion of foot guards, followed by all the Emperor’s servants in a body, including his own coachman,jäger, and valet. Then came thirty non-commissioned officers with snow-white plumes, bearing on their shoulders the coffin of the deceased Emperor, covered with a plain black pall. Immediately behind it rode the Crown Prince and Prince Henry, followed by all the generals and foreign militaryattachés, among them Count Moltke. Then another division of mounted body-guards clattered by, and the procession ended in a long line of carriages.
The interior of the cathedral was an impressive sight. The chancel had been converted into a grove of palms and laurels, in the centre of which, on a black catafalque, rested the casket of purple velvet heavily decorated with gold. On either side stood huge candelabra from which countless tapers shed their soft radiance, while close beside were placed white satin stools embroidered in gold. At the foot of the coffin were laid the rarest and costliest wreaths. After it had been lifted on to the catafalque the Emperor’s own valet, who had always attended to His Majesty’s personal wants during his lifetime, approached and lifted the pall. Even in death the monarch’s features wore the same expression of noble serenity that had characterized them in life. Upon the venerable head was placed the military forage cap. The body was clothed in the uniform of the First Foot Guards, the historic gray cloak drawn carefully about the shoulders. His only decorations were the Star of the Order of the Black Eagle, the collar of the Order of Merit, and the Grand Cross of the Order of the Iron Cross. At his feet lay a single wreath of green laurel. Keeping watch on the right side of the bier stood two of the palace guards with arms lowered, on the left two artillerymen with raised arms, this honorary service being shared in turn by all the guard regiments. From this time until the day of the funeral the cathedral became the centre of attraction, not only to the people of Berlin but to the thousands of strangers who thronged the capital anxious to obtain one more last look at the beloved Emperor. From early morning till far into the night a vast multitude surrounded the cathedral, waiting and hoping to gain entrance; but although an average of seventy-five hundred people passed through the edifice every hour, there were still hundreds left outside, unable to gratify their desire.
Meanwhile Unter den Linden, through which the funeral procession was to pass on its way to the mausoleum at Charlottenburg, had been transformed into a street of mourning. Art and patriotism combined to achieve the highest results of the decorator’s skill, and the wide thoroughfare presented an appearance of gloomy magnificence impossible to describe here in detail. All the public buildings were draped in black and elaborately decorated; the streets were lined with Venetian masts connected with festoons of black and surmounted by the royal golden eagle, while many ornamental structures of various kinds had been erected, some enclosing statues of allegorical figures. The Brandenburg Gate was most imposing, and well might it be, for the sovereign who had entered it so often as a conqueror was now to pass out of it for the last time. All along the Siegesallee also were displayed signs of mourning, while at Charlottenburg the public grief found touching expression in the crape-wreathed banners and sable-hung houses and monuments.
The funeral obsequies were held on Friday, March 16. On the stroke of eleven the brazen tongues of the cathedral bells gave the signal, which was answered by those of all the churches in Berlin tolling at intervals all during the ceremonies. At the same time the doors of the cathedral were opened; the various officers took their appointed places at the head and foot of the coffin. The Minister of State and the Lord Chamberlain stepped behind the tabourets on which lay the imperial insignia,—crown, sword, orb, sceptre, etc.,—the generals and military deputies present grouping themselves on the lower step of the estrade. The invited guests, knights of the Black Eagle, members of the diplomatic corps, heads of noble houses, and others who had assembled in the outer part of the church, were then shown to their places, and last of all the Empress Victoria, Queen Elizabeth of Roumania, and the royal princesses entered and took the seats placed for them in a semicircle before the altar, the other foreign princesses occupying an enclosure to the left. The foreign ambassadors had places reserved for them in the body of the church immediately behind the most illustrious guests.
The funeral services, which at the Emperor’s own request were conducted by the Court Chaplain, Dr. Kögel, assisted by the cathedral clergy, began shortly after noon. While the mourners were assembling the organist had been playing soft preludes into which Emperor William’s favorite tunes were skilfully woven, but when all had arrived its deep tones died away and the service began with the reading of portions of the ninetieth Psalm and of the eleventh chapter of the Epistle of Saint John. Then came the singing of “I know that my Redeemer liveth” by the cathedral choir and the funeral sermon by Dr. Kögel. He had chosen as his text the verses from Saint Luke, “Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace, for mine eyes have seen thy salvation,” and the trembling tones of the great preacher betrayed his deep emotion as he spoke of the dead monarch, to whom, as spiritual adviser, he had stood so close. After a short prayer, followed by other selections from the choir, the congregation joined in singing a hymn, and the service concluded with the pronouncing of a benediction over the departed Emperor.