Like a little criminal—as my oldest boy does occasionally—he turned red, then white, then red again. He buried his face in his hands. He trembled. He seemed to be crying. I arose, and lightly laid my hand upon his blonde head.
He's got the finest, silkiest hair in the world, shimmering like beaten gold.
And then he lay at my feet, covering them with kisses. And instantly all his force, his courage, his eloquence returned.
He went away like a man a-dreaming.
I long for him; I confess I long for him. Whether I love him or not I don't know. But that I know, I will love him.
And if I cannot, what matters it? I don't have to love to be happy. To be loved is enough. I want to be his Queen, his life.
Dresden, July 1, 1899.
Privy Councillor von Barthels told the King that my delicate condition needs constant watching. I go to his clinic every second day, while he visits me once or twice daily at the palace.