He has been laughed at for once attempting musical composition.  The “Song to Aegir,” which he composed in 1894 at the age of thirty-five (when he should have known better), was, he told the bandmaster of a Hannoverian regiment, suggested to him by the singing of a Hannoverian glee society.  It is a song twenty-four lines long, with the inevitable references to the foe, and the sword and shield, and whales and mermaids, and the God of the waves, who is called on to quell the storm.  The lady-in-waiting who wrote the “Private Lives of the Emperor and His Consort” tells with much detail how the song was really written, not by the Emperor, but almost wholly by a musical adjutant.  It does not greatly matter, but it is likely that the Emperor is responsible for the text if he did not compose the music.

One of the best and most interesting descriptions of his kindly and characteristic way of treating artists is that given by the late Norwegian composer, Eduard Grieg.

“The other day,” writes the composer,

I had a chance to meet your Kaiser.  He had already expressed a desire last year to meet me, but I was ill at that time.  Now he has renewed his wish, and therefore I could not decline the invitation.  I am, as you know, little of a courtier.  But I said to myself, ‘Remember Aalesund’ (for which the Emperor had sent a large sum after a great fire), and my sense of duty conquered.  Our first meeting was at breakfast at the German Consul’s house.  During the meal we spoke much about music.  I like his ways, and—­oddly enough—­our opinions also agreed.  Afterwards he came to me and I had the pleasure of talking with him alone for nearly an hour.  We spoke about everything in heaven and earth—­about poetry, painting, religion, Socialism, and the Lord knows what besides.

“He was fortunately a human being, and not an Emperor.  I was therefore permitted to express my opinions openly, though in a discreet manner, of course.  Then followed some music.  He had brought along an orchestra (!), about forty men.  He took two chairs, placed them in front of all the others, sat down on one, and said, ‘If you please, first parquet’; and then the music began—­Sigurd Jorsalfar, Peer Gynt, and many other things.

“While the music was being played he continually aided me in correcting the tempi and the expression, although as a matter of course I had not wanted to do such a thing.  He was very insistent, however, that I should make my intentions clear.  Then he illustrated the impression made by the music by movements of his head and body.  It was wonderful (goettlich) to watch his serpentine movements a la Orientalin while they played Anitra’s dance, which quite electrified him.

     “Afterwards I had to play for him on the piano, and my wife,
     who sat nearest him, told me that here too he illustrated
     the impression made on him, especially at the best places.