CHAPTER XIII
UNSPEAKABLE LITTLENESSES OF PETTY COURTS
Another quarrel with my husband—Personal attendant to a corpse—Killing by pin pricks—The mythical three "How art thou's?"—Unwanted sympathy from my inferiors—Pride of the decapitated Queen of France is in me—Lovers not impossible—Court to blame for them—My husband acts cowardly—Brutalizes my household—I lock myself in.
Dresden, December 1, 1893.
I saved myself the trouble to record events for two or three months. I expect my child by the end of the year and, believing in prenatal influence, it would be a shame, I think, to poison the unborn baby's mind by dwelling on the unspeakable littlenesses that make up and burden life at this petty court.
But I may die in the attempt of presenting Saxony with another candidate for appanages and honors, and this threat, hanging over every expectant mother, makes me take up my pen again. If I perish, let there be a record of my sufferings and also of my defiance.
It turned out that the Queen's and George's apparent acquiescence to my sinful popularity marked the deceitful calm before the storm. Frederick Augustus has not succeeded in gaining the King's and his father's forgiveness even now. As a military officer he is shunted from pillar to post, and the generals and high officials of the court treat him like a recruit in disgrace. Of course he blames me, shouting that I wrecked his career.
As if a future king need care a rap whether, as prince, he got a regiment a few months earlier or later.
"When you are King," I sometimes say to him, "you may nominate yourself Field-Marshal-General and Great-Admiral above and below the sea—what do you care?"