Yet, how he must love me to risk saying what he did say to me. He is no ill-balanced youth; he is a man of ripe judgment. His passion got the better of him.
I adore passion.
I must go no more to the theatre. Impossible for me to see him nightly.
But it's a fine thing to be loved as I am. The most beautiful thing in the wide, wide world!
Dresden, April 27, 1897. In the Morning.
He is waiting. Doubtless he expects me. What a persuasive thing love is, to be sure! Because he loves me, he argues that the Crown Princess, the wife and mother, will rush to meet him, fall into his arms.
Of course, he will be most unhappy if I don't go, for I am sure he is not your ordinary "petticoat-chaser." He will suffer, he is suffering now while I sit here quietly.
Am I quiet? If I weren't determined to stay at home, I would half-admit to myself that my soul is obsessed with longing for this man.
A diplomat, who has seen much of court life, assumes that a woman in my position is at liberty to keep rendezvous! Let's reason it out.