Work Text:
No doubt she was a beautiful woman. The paintings I have been sent do her no justice; the plump face, the pale arms should make any man shudder in ecstasy. But when I gaze upon her face from across this vast room, I cannot feel the flush of pleasure, the thrill I see so many others experience. She is serene, well bred. The Princess Sophie, Duchess of Bavaria. She would make a good queen; her lineage is good, and she would bear me strong sons. As a man, I should desire her, the diamond of Austria. As a king, I should want her to wife, to carry the bloodlines forward. It is my duty to wed her. In time, perhaps, I will desire her as my father desired my mother.
And then he is there, with his radical views and extravagantly outlandish ways, flirting shamelessly with men and women alike. All thoughts of Sophie leave my mind. He is not a handsome man; short, thin, with a nose and prominent chin that seem too large for his head. Nevertheless, I feel the warm flush of desire heating my skin. There is no denying the man’s genius; for all his sexual indiscretions with men and women both, his operas are known well to the aristocracy and often performed. “Wagner!” I have heard growing up all my life. “Genius! Wonderful!” All this and more, but that does not account for the pure joy that fills me when he enters a room.
Although he is technically exiled to Switzerland, I could not resist bringing him back to my side. My guests tonight are discreet, not like some fools of my court who find him too outrageous. They say he is a rogue and indiscriminate, that his affairs with married women are disgraceful. I know better. Yes, he does flirt shamelessly, and yes, he has had his share of women in his bed, but these I do not begrudge him. After all, the more men he cuckolds, the less likely people will realize the inordinate amount of time he spends in my bed. Now he is playing the artist, flattering the nobles to all sides of him, as if he does not already know that I will be his patron, his only patron, always. He catches my gaze, and winks at me. If the fool is not careful, we will be caught out. The king and his composer; what farce.
“He is audacious. Shows no respect for good blood and good breeding.” In my enraptured state, I did not notice the Princess Sophie’s approach. “His operas are crude,” she continues, “nothing but retold copies of stories already centuries old. There is no style or authenticity to his work.” Is she daft? Does she not realize that I am his patron? Perhaps I had to ask him to leave Munich, but I have kept him close to me, after all. His work is genius! I can only stare at her in astonishment. Of course, even bad composers must eat, I suppose. It is very kind of you to support him, despite his mediocrity.”
Mediocre? My Richard? “His work is superb. Any individual of any pedigree or education would recognize this. Has the princess never had the pleasure of listening to his compositions personally?” I had always admired Richard’s work. Watching his operas as a child, I would beg my king-father to bring him to court. I wanted to meet this genius, explore his mind. It never occurred to me the instant attraction I would have for him, when I finally brought him to my court. I remember how stately he looked. He wears his age well, not hiding it as so many other courtiers do. Instead, he allows his experiences to show on his face, on his body. It ages him, yes, but it also gives him a type of elegant maturity that I long to someday acquire. In a way, he has watched me grow into the man I have become, been my mentor as much as I have been his patron. Any fool can see his passion, his fire. It is what draws me to him, far more than any bedroom skills he may exhibit. At least she seems ashamed of her own shocking lack of taste. And this is the woman whom I am to wed? She is nothing at all like her sister Elisabeth, my beloved friend.
“Your majesty, your highness.” A deep bow to both of us. I see the way his spine arches under the stiff brocade of his frock and desire thrums through me; I know what that arch looks like without the cloth blocking my view. Sophie barely acknowledges his presence, thinking him too far beneath her. Does she not realize that, when we are married she will certainly see much more of him? She turns away; clearly, she expects me to follow her. It is not arrogance on her part; as her future king, I should choose my queen over my courtiers, but I cannot bring myself to follow the prideful woman. I cannot, will not, turn my back on Richard. “Your queen-to-be, she does not like me. She thinks my work uncouth and unworthy.” How astute my lover is! “Will you agree?” And there, hidden behind three words, layers of questions. Will you continue to pay me patronage? Will you be loyal to your queen? Will you continue to stay by my side? And, underneath it all, buried deep, Will you still love me?
I must choose my answer carefully; we are not alone. “I will be loyal to whomever I marry, but my tastes remain my own.” Silently, I will him to understand; I will not relinquish my hold on what we have, not for any mere woman. The brightness of his returned gaze confirms what I already know. Sophie may become my queen, but Richard, my Richard, will always be my partner. He excuses himself; I have other guests I must see to before the opera begins, and an angry princess to appease. It is mere weeks until our wedding; it would not do to anger her now.
The sun is beginning to rise and my guests are retiring to their respective rooms in the town below. I have not seen him for many hours; I miss his vitality, and it gnaws at me, throbbing in the back of my mind. It is time for me to take my rest; I leave Sophie amidst a group of rapt admirers, and make my way back to my quarters.
Disrobing, I lay myself naked on my bed. Yes, it is common of me to do so; royals do not sleep in the nude. But my sheets are of the richest silk directly from the Orient; the feeling against my bare skin is luxurious. I must have fallen asleep; when I next opened my eyes, the sun is high in the sky, and a naked body lies next to mine. For a moment, I panic. The princess was very amorous and aggressive last night, not at all befitting of her position, despite our upcoming nuptials. But the body beside my own is thin, darker and wiry, and most definitely male. Sometime in the early hours, Richard must have entered my chambers. Even sleeping, the man is graceless, with features that are too large for his slender face. Twig-like limbs sprawl over me, a stark contrast against my aristocrat’s body. Bending over him, I kiss one lean shoulder. Ah, what I would give to spend the afternoon in bed with my lover. But I am the king; matters of the state must be attended to.
Reluctantly, I drag myself from the warmth of my covers, leaving Richard softly snoring behind me. He needs his rest, for he is not a young man any longer. The years have aged him, although he is still a capable man. In my eyes, he will always remain so. Although he is thirty years my elder, he has never treated me as a child, and for this I love him all the more. His subservience, his dependence on me, his willingness to submit to my will; it thrills me to know this older man so readily puts himself in my hands. As I leave my chambers and make my way towards my public study downstairs, I see Sophie wandering around, heading upstairs. What is she doing going there? The third floor are my personal apartments here are Schloss Hohenschwangau; all the guest rooms are down below, by my mother’s apartments. Sophie had spent the night there; the queen’s apartments would be hers soon. A brief nod of acknowledgement, then I’m to court.
The past few days have been long and tiring; although I have been ruling for a few years now, I feel as though I must still impress my father’s ministers. The trade agreements are going roughly; the sooner I marry Sophie, the sooner the treaties are solidified. Only six more weeks until the royal wedding; the preparations have been ongoing for months now. Between the state matters and my upcoming nuptials with the Princess Sophie, there has been almost no time to indulge myself in the pleasure of Wagner, either in opera or in bed. However, tonight there are no parties, no princesses and no politicians; I am looking forward to a night of music, culture, enlightening conversations and perhaps some more vigorous, horizontal type activities.
As I ascend the stone steps leading up to my quarters, I hear voices by my bedchambers. Of the pair, I recognize one as my Richard’s. Is the other Princess Sophie? What is she doing upstairs? So great is my astonishment that I stop just before the corridor. Hidden by the corner as I am, I can hear the conversation quite clearly.
“-have no business being up here. You have no right to his rooms!”
“I am to be his queen! I have every right to explore my chambers, and the hidden staircase leads directly from my bedchambers to his.” Terrible; I had forgotten about the staircase my father had installed to sneak into my mother’s quarters. “And here I find, of all things, you! Naked, and in his bed. You are disgusting! A degenerate, no less. How dare you insinuate that you have any right to be here at all, you filthy animal! Once we are wed, I will ensure that Ludwig destroys you, you sinful sodomite.”
The silence that greets this tirade terrifies me more than anything else. Does Richard truly think so little of my devotion to him that he believes I would ever abandon him? And Sophie! My anger at her grows more and more vivid. Firstly, to be so forward at the ball last evening, degrading my lover and assuming I am so lovesick for her beauty like all the other men who fawn over her. To go exploring in my home without my express permission. For assuming she has any right to dictate whom I take to my bed. But this, more than anything, sowing the seeds of doubt and hurting my lover, this is intolerable. Young though I am, and important though this marriage may be, not for nothing am I king.
However, I am not a rash man. In my years as a ruler and in my father’s court, I have learned that patience is an important virtue. There is the right time and place for everything, and I have learned to use this to my advantage. Quietly, I returned down the staircase, but not before my astute lover sees me. I head towards the kitchen. Tonight, as a farewell before all my aristocratic friends leave the region, there will be a dinner to remember.
The dinner hall was full; almost every guest had come for the dinner thrown in honor of his last day, despite the late notice of the invitations. Raising my glass, “I propose a toast! To you, all my dear friends, for your presence in my lands these past few days. To you, Wagner, for your brilliant music and operas which we have so enjoyed! To the Princess Sophie, who has graced us with her beauty!” A smattering of applause begins before I cut them off. “And to my bachelorhood, for now and for eternity, for,” gazing at Richard as I say, “I am calling off the marriage between myself and the Princess Sophie, and I will never marry a woman!”
Silence falls over the room at my declaration. Then, with an angry huff, Sophie gathers her women and kin and leaves the room hurriedly. The other guests are not far behind; the great room empties until only Richard and I are left. He does not say anything; he does not need to. The look he gives me tells me I have made the right decision.
“Well then, it is late, my friend. Shall we retire?” At this, he starts out of his daze. “And tonight, let us not bother with the farce of your guest room. Come to my bed directly.” I hold my hand out to my lover, and we continue to my bedchambers, where we finally engage in that vigorous horizontal activity which I have longed for these past few days.