LOVE AND THE HAPPINESS IT CONVEYS
My Grand Mistress suspects because I am so amiable--Pangs of
jealousy--Every good-looking man pursued by women--A good story of
my cousin, the Duchess Berri--We all go cycling together--The
Vitzthums--Love making on the street--A mud bath.
_December 15, 1900._
When one is in love and loved a-plenty, weeks and months roll by without
notice by the happy ones.
For my part I never thought there was so much happiness in the world as
I am experiencing since the beginning of September. But I have my
troubles, too. First, the Tisch. When a lady is well pleased by her
lover, then her eyes are bright, her cheeks glow, her lips smile; she
bears with her entourage; she is kind to her servants. The moment I
treated the Tisch as a human being, she began to suspect, and I am sure
she is eating her heart out fretting because God gave me both nuts and
teeth to crack them.
But I am qualifying as an expert deceiver, and my Grand Mistress won't
catch me in a hurry.
My other great trouble is: long separations from Henry, hours upon hours
in daytime, half the nights.
What is he doing when he is not with me? Of course he pretends to tell,
but I am not goose enough to suppose that he would incriminate himself
for the love of truth. He is hiding things from me, perhaps cheating me.
I have to arm myself with all the faith loving woman commands to
forestall occasional noisy out-breaks of jealousy.
Was there ever a good-looking man, women didn't try to capture and
seduce? Manly beauty is the red rag that enthralls and excites women and
renders them dishonest, though their honor doesn't lodge at the point
they designate as its _habitat_.
Sometimes, when in these jealous frenzies, I wish Henry had a face like
a Chinese kite, or like Riom, husband and lover of my ancestress, the
Duchess du Berri.
She was "_satisfied_" with him, but since her lady-in-waiting, too, was,
I might, after all, fare no better than Berri, if Henry was a toad, "his
skin spotted like a serpent's, oily like a negro's, changeable like a
chameleon, with a turned up nose and disproportionate mouth." Yet I
hardly believe that, like my cousin, I would say anent a rival: "Whoever
would not be satisfied with him, would be hard to please."
Alas, with women in love the extreme of ugliness counts as triumphantly
as the charms of Adonis. Ever since I read certain passages of Faust,
part II, Eduard von Hartmann's "Philosophy of the Unconscious," and
Lermontoff's "Hero of our Times," I am convinced that to love a man very
good-looking, or, on the contrary, a perfect horror, is no sinecure.
Fortunately Henry is almost penniless.
* * * * *
DRESDEN, _January 2, 1901_.
Henry's sister married one of the numerous Vitzthums, of the family that
furnished the Saxon court with titled servants and _maitresses en titre_
for the past several hundred years.
I immediately sent word to her ladyship, that having taken up bicycling,
I would be pleased to have her attend me on the wheel on the afternoon
following. The invitation was issued from the office of my Court
Marshal, which is controlled by the King's. Having thus secured
beforehand His Majesty's approval, possible criticism was nipped in the
bud. The bride asked permission to bring her husband.
"Granted. Order of dress: _mufti_."
This enabled us, myself and Henry, and the Count and Countess to ride
all over town, unrecognized by either officials or the public at large.
It was great fun, and I told the Vitzthums that I intended to wheel
every morning at nine, immediately after breakfast. Count Vitzthum is
Henry's colonel. Of course he granted both Henry and himself furlough
for the time set.
What happiness! Now I don't have to wait till afternoon and evening to
see my lover.
* * * * *
DRESDEN, _January 10, 1901_.
I am so happy, I am growing careless.
The Vitzthums, profiting by the fact that they are but recently married,
prefer to travel in pairs, and always take the lead. Accordingly Henry
and myself, incog. as far as my future subjects go, are free to indulge
in occasional caresses and sweet nonsense-talk.
I was pouring honeyed words into Henry's ears the other morning when my
wheel skidded on the wet pavement, and before he, or I, could save me, I
was down on my back in the mud.
The fact that I was again _enceinte_, and the other fact that I was
covered with dirt, ought to have prompted me to return to the palace at
once, but how un-Louise-like the straight and sane course would have
been.
I allowed myself to be wiped off by Henry; then mounted my wheel anew
and raced after the Vitzthums.
Unfortunately, a reporter heard of the incident and, for the benefit of
his pocket, made a column out of it.
A few hours after the story appeared in the evening paper, the palace
was in an uproar. The King wasn't well enough to scold me, so he
delegated that pleasant duty to Prince George. His Royal Highness
promptly informed me that the "damned bicycling had to stop."