I CONFESS TO PAPA
King Albert dies and King George a very sick man—Papa's good advice—"You will be Queen soon"—A lovely old man, very much troubled.
Castle Sibyllenort, June 19, 1902.
King Albert is dead. George is King, and may God have mercy upon my soul.
Of course the demise of His Majesty changed all my plans of defiance and otherwise. I am once more an official person, even an important one, for the new King can't last long. He is a very sick man, in fact. Perhaps that is the reason why he wants to hear himself addressed "Your Majesty" all the time. Petty souls like to be called "great."
Dresden, June 21, 1902.
I intended to return at once to Loschwitz, but the King, hearing of my intention and not wishing to provoke another scene, invited my father to come to Dresden "in the interests of his daughter."
The same evening I received a wire from papa, saying that he would be in Dresden within twenty-four hours.
My own arrival in the capital was kept secret by the King's order, but next afternoon, when I drove to the station to welcome my father, I got my reception just the same. The people wildly cheered their Crown Princess and thousands of sympathizing eyes followed me from the palace to the depot.
I was almost overcome by so much sympathy and when at last I saw father, I threw myself on his neck, crying aloud.
The King was standing by, impatiently waiting to conduct his grand-ducal guest before the guard of honor had drawn up. "Later, later," whispered papa, patting me on the cheek.
Dresden, June 22, 1902.
I had an hour's talk with father. I bared my heart to him. I reported my own faults along with those of the others.
Papa understands me. He sympathizes with me, but help me he cannot.
"These are only passing shadows," he said. "Look boldly into the future. You will soon be Queen."
And he told me of his financial difficulties and of the misfortune of being a sovereign lord without either land or money.
"The Emperor ordered me to scold you hard," he continued, "and mamma wants me to be very severe. As to King George, he said he would thank God if I succeeded in breaking your rebellious spirit. 'If you don't, I will,' added his Majesty."
Then father kissed me more lovingly than ever and asked, half apologetically: "Is it true, Louise, that you had a lover?"
"I thought I had one, but he was unworthy of me," I replied without shame.
My confession seemed to frighten him.
"It's sad, sad," he said. "Royal blood is dangerous juice. It brought Mary of Scots to the scaffold; it caused your great-aunt Marie Antoinette to lose her head, only to save the old monarchies a few years later, when we inveigled the enemy of legitimate kingship into a marriage with another of your relatives. But for Marie, Louise, the descendants of the Corsican might still sit on a dozen thrones."
Father forgot his daughter's disgrace when he mounted this historic hobby-horse and, needless to say, I did not recall the original text.
Only when, three days later, he took leave of me, holding my head long between his two trembling hands and kissing me again and again, I felt that the poor, old man's heart was oppressed with shame and torn by fears.