Dresden, in May, 1899.
Privy Councillor von Barthels, my body physician, is a very agreeable man. I have no use for his services, professional services at present, yet insist upon receiving him daily. Still I love him not. Only esteem him as a friend, I need a friend. Physicians can keep secrets, and I have many of them. I look upon Barthels as my Father-confessor.
The tears came into his eyes when I told him, and he said: "Imperial Highness, this is the most beautiful hour of my life."
He spoke with enthusiasm; there was fire in his eyes and in his voice, yet a moment later he was again the most reserved of men and conversation lagged.
It happened three days ago. He has paid me four visits since and I notice with astonishment, with curiosity and with alarm, that this man is in love with me.
How long has he loved me?
His love is like a warm mantle 'round my shoulders on a chilly night. It exudes warmth, strength, beatitude, yet there is none of the animal.
He is a good talker on a thousand and one subjects, a thinker and psychologist. Psychology is his strong point. He argues brilliantly on the subject, yet I need only look at him to upset his thesis, to make him stammer and redden.
He's no Count Bielsk and will never tell me of his own accord that he loves me. Is his admiration greater than his love? Perhaps so. It gives me a feeling of security.
Lucretia knows, but in the presence of the Tisch, he plays the servant, deeming himself thrice honored by being allowed to breathe the same air as her Imperial Highness.