They parleyed; they begged. "The Crown Prince desires to spend Christmas with the children. In the interests of public opinion, it's absolutely necessary that he does."
"But not—that I submit to prostitution. I will give him a dinner, but he will drive back to Dresden immediately afterwards."
Frederick Augustus brought numerous presents for me. "You may place them under the Christmas tree," I ordered the Tisch.
"Oh, Your Imperial Highness, look," cried the Tisch, holding up something or other.
I turned my back on her and looked out of the window. I never went near my end of the Christmas table. "You will send the things brought by His Royal Highness to the bazaar for crippled children," I told the House Marshal. "They shall be sold for the benefit of the poor."
Loschwitz, January 1, 1902.
"Her Imperial Highness regrets."
I refused the invitations to today's family dinner; the grand reception, Te Deum and parade. "Unprecedented affront!" What do I care!
I have eighteen horses, half-a-dozen carriages, I drive, I ride, I hunt, I give the Tisch palpitation daily by the literature I affect: Zola, Flaubert, M'lle Paul, Ma Femme, M'lle de Maupin, Casanova, M'me Bovary. And the periodicals I subscribed for! Simplicissimus, Harden's Zukunft, all the double entendre weeklies and monthlies of Paris. May Prince George and Mathilde burst with rage and envy when they hear of my excursions in the realms of the literary Satans.