Dresden, November 16, 1902.
Another straw indicating the direction of the wind—the ill-wind.
King George commanded Bernhardt to be madman no longer and come and live in Dresden. Since his arrival he has paid assiduous court to all members of the royal family, but me. He called on the royal ministers, the courtiers, the high civil authorities, but my apartments have seen him not. I don't blame the boy for making the best of the situation, but was it really necessary to offer gratuitous insult to the only relative that stood by him when in trouble?
Doubtless, he took his cue from the King, who cut me dead while, with the rest, I thanked God for his recovery.
November 20, 1902.
The Tisch is openly talking Sonnenstein. "The royal apartments are ready for her reception," she let fall yesterday.
Old Andrew, my confidential servant, told me.
She shows me the face of a bull-dog about to spring at a victim, a sea-green devil filled with vinegar and gall, but affects icy courtesy.
Frederick Augustus is down in the mouth. If he knows of any evil intention against me, he evidently made up his mind to hold his tongue and avoid scenes.