Part 8 (1/2)

Father-in-law George tells me to trust no one but him, my husband, and Frederick Augustus's sisters, cousins and aunts, and to rely on prayer only, yet, stubborn as nature made me, I prefer respectable white paper to my sweet relatives.

Up to now my most ambitious literary attempts were intimate letters to my brother Leopold, the ”Black Sheep.” As I now start in writing letters to myself, it occurs to me that my worse self may be corresponding with my better self, or vice versa. If I was only a poet like Countess Solms, but, dear, no. All real bluestockings are ugly and emaciated. Solms is both, and her legs are as long and as thin as those of Diana, my English hunter.

I think this Diary business will be quite amusing,--at any rate, it will be more so than the conversation of my ladies. Ah, those ladies of the court of Saxony! If they would only talk of anything else but orphans, sisters of charity and ballet girls. The latter always have one foot in Hades, while you can see the wings grow on the backs of the others.

When the von Schoenberg struts in, peac.o.c.k fas.h.i.+on, and announces ”his royal Highness did himself the honor to soil his bib,” I sometimes stare at her, not comprehending at the moment, and the fact that she is talking of my baby only gradually comes to mind. Isn't it ridiculous that a little squalling bit of humanity, whom the accident of birth planted in a palace, is royalty first and all the time, and a child only because he can't help it?

As for me, I am a woman and mother first, and my child is an animated lump of flesh and blood--_my_ flesh and blood--first and all the time.

Of course, when baby came I wanted to nurse it. You should have seen Frederick Augustus's face. If I had proposed to become a wet-nurse to some ”socialist brat” he couldn't have been more astonished. Yet my great ancestress, the Empress Maria Theresa, nursed her babies ”before a parquet of proletarians,” at the theatre and at reviews, and thought nothing of giving the breast to a poor foundling left in the park of Schoenbrunn.

Frederick Augustus recovered his speech after a while--though he never says anything that would seem to require reflection, he always acts the deep thinker. ”Louise,” he mumbled reproachfully,--”what will his Majesty say?”

”I thought you were the father of the child,” I remarked innocently.

”No levity where the King is concerned,” he corrected poor me. ”You know very well that for an act of this kind a royal permit must be previously obtained.”

Followed a long pause to give his mental apparatus time to think some more. Then: ”And, besides, it will hurt your figure.”

”Augusta Victoria” (the German Empress) ”nursed half a dozen children, and her _decollete_ is still much admired,” I insisted.

Frederick Augustus paid no attention to this argument. ”Anyhow, I don't want the doctors to examine your breast daily,” he said with an air of mixed sentimentality and brusqueness.

These were not his own words, though. My husband, not content with calling a spade a spade, invariably uses the nastiest terms in the dictionary of debauchery. When he tells me of his love adventures before marriage it's always ”I bagged that girl,” or ”I made something tender out of her,” just as a hunter talks of game or a leg of venison.

He doesn't want to be rude; he is so without knowing it. His indelicacy would be astounding in a man born on the steps of the throne, if the Princes of this royal house were not all inclined that way.

Two weeks after my accouchement George and Isabelle called. Though brother and sister-in-law, we are not at all on terms of intimacy.

Frederick Augustus made some remarks of a personal nature that sent all the blood to my head; Isabelle seemed to enjoy my discomfort, but George had the decency to go to the window and comment on the dirty boots of a guard lieutenant just entering the courtyard. Frederick Augustus thought he had made a hit with Isabelle and applauded his own effort with a loud guffaw, while pounding his thighs, which seems to give him particular satisfaction.

CHAPTER II

THE SWEET FAMILY

Husband loving, but family nasty--Money considerations--Brutal caresses in public--Pests in the family--Awful serenity--Meddle with angels' or devils' affairs--Father-in-law's gritty kiss.

CASTLE WACHWITZ, _February 24, 1893_.

I have been married some fifteen months and I love my husband. He is kind, not too inquisitive and pa.s.sionate. I have better claims to domestic happiness than most of my royal sisters on or near the thrones of Europe. Of course when I married into the Saxon royal family I expected to be treated with ill-concealed enmity. Wasn't I young and handsome? Reason enough for the old maids and childless wives, my new sweet relatives, to detest me.

Wasn't I poor? I brought little with me and my presence entailed a perpetual expense. Now in royal families money is everything, or nearly so, and the newcomer that eats but doesn't increase the family fortune is regarded as an interloper.

If I hadn't ”_made good_,” that is if, in due time, I hadn't become a mother, my position among the purse-proud, rapacious and narrow-minded Wettiners would have become wellnigh intolerable. But I proved myself a _Holstein_. I rose superior to Queen Carola, who never had a child, and to Maria, Mathilda, Isabelle and Elizabeth, who either couldn't or didn't. But, to my mind, acting the _cow_ for the benefit of the race did not invite stable manners.

I wasn't used to them. They hadn't figured in the dreams of my girlhood.

I thought love less robust. I didn't expect to be squeezed before my ladies. Even the best beloved husband shouldn't take liberties with his wife's waist in the parlor.