WHAT I WILL DO WHEN I AM QUEEN
A foretaste: titled servants put me en route for lover—The bargain I will propose to Frederick Augustus—Frederick Augustus will be a complaisant King—To revive Petit Trianon—I am addressed as Queen.
Dresden, November 3, 1902.
Though still styled Crown Princess, I am already revelling in the delights and perquisites of queenship: I do as I please, go where I please, I would think aloud, as I please, if anyone dared me.
For all my enemies of a week ago turned flatterers and flunkeys, bowing, grovelling, fawning, contemptible in their self-abasement, but quite useful to my purposes.
Like most royal palaces, ours at Dresden has a secret staircase and exit for emergencies. It is never used by ladies; only the princes have recourse to it, occasionally, to drop out of sight in mufti, for, of course, royal incognito is more or less legitimate.
"In the evening, after our card party was over, Catherine was seen to dismiss her court and retire to her private apartments with the new favorite," say the Secret Memoirs of the Court of St. Petersburg.
Less publicly, perhaps, but even more illegitimately, I walk the secret staircase en route for my lover whenever I please nowadays.
I go veiled and—make the Grand Mistress open the door for me. She knows that I am on sweet pleasure bent and—smiles.
"When will Your Imperial Highness deign to return?"
I name the hour and she is there to receive me—smirking, blind, deaf and dumb.
A foretaste of my queenship paradise! No one will boss me, no one will dare talk about me, everything I do will be good, even sublime.
I made up my mind as to Frederick Augustus.
"Frederick Augustus," I will say to him, "now that we are King and Queen, let's enjoy to the full the thing's emoluments; otherwise, what's the use? You will allow me to go my way and I will certainly shut both eyes as to your doings, even if you follow in the footsteps of your namesake of the three-hundred-and-fifty-two."
Of course, I will say it differently, but my husband will understand. The main thing: the royal family and court must stop hurling at me the long, watery haussez les mains of narrow-minded, provincial inquisitiveness, which both oppresses and goads me.
Frederick Augustus has too much respect for the kingly dignity to impugn his partner, the Queen.
Will I revive, then, the seraglios of the Russian Anns and Elizabeths, or start a new Parc aux Cerfs with strong men and Marathon winners for inmates? Thank you, a miniature Petit Trianon will be good enough for me.
The Tisch entered a minute ago and respectfully remains at the door, though she sees I am engaged on my Diary. I watch her in the mirror. She would travel bare-foot to Kevlaar, of which Heinrich Heine sung, for a glimpse of what I wrote. Her variegated grimaces give her the appearance of a carved wooden devil, sprinkled with holy water.
At last I deign to inquire: "What is it, Baroness?"
"The Crown Prince wants to see Your Imperial Highness. May he come in?"
"Since when does my husband send you to announce him?"
"Pardon, Your Imperial Highness, I meant Prince George."
Designating my first-born Prince Royal, means recognizing me as Queen.
And, but ten days ago, this same viper refused to address me by my proper title.