FEARS FOR MY LOVE
Some reflections on queens of old who punished recreant
lovers--Henry was in debt and I gave him money--Indignities by which
some of that money was earned--Husband accompanies me to
Loschwitz--Reflections on Frederick Augustus's character.
_January 15, 1901._
My love played the melancholy Dane for the last few days. His tenderness
seemed labored, his spirits under a cloud. Every smile I got had to be
coaxed from him.
"The end of my happiness," I thought; "some chit of a girl dethroned
me." And I cursed my birthday. "A kingdom for ten years off my age."
And my thoughts of thoughts travelled back to the times when royal
ladies had their rivals immured, as practiced by a Brandenburg princess
at the Kaiser's hunting box at Gruenewald, or made a head shorter, like
Lady Jane Grey, who was far too pretty to please Elizabeth; or shot, as
elected by Queen Christina, _tribade_ and nymphomaniac both.
And the things Queen Bess did to her unfaithfuls and the crimes Mary
Stuart perpetrated to cheat Jeannie Bothwell out of her doughty Hepburn!
"If I were Queen," I thought, and I must have spoken aloud, for Henry
said: "You would make me a great lord, love, wouldn't you, give me the
best paying office at court, but that's small comfort to my creditors
today."
"It's creditors, mere creditors bothering you?" I almost shouted with
joy. This man was still mine. No one had succeeded in luring him away
from me. I threw myself upon him and nearly smothered him.
Filthy lucre, or the want of it, oppressing my boy. Money, miserable
money, caused me to doubt his very loyalty.
"How much?"
He stuttered and denied and swore it was all a mistake and that I had
misunderstood him. "As an army officer----"
"Don't talk like Frederick Augustus. It will give me the greatest
pleasure in the world to arrange your affairs, dearest."
I got him to name the sum after a while. What a pity I am not rich. As
Catharine sent her Orloffs and Potemkins and Zoritchs to the State
Treasury to help themselves as they saw fit, so I would gladly turn
fortunes over to Henry, never asking for an accounting.
But this Imperial Highness is wretchedly poor, like most royal women
not actually seated on the throne. I can't offer my paramour financial
independence, not even luxury, but, thank heaven, I saved up enough to
provide for his present needs, even if my treasury be drained to the
last twenty-mark piece, and I will have to cut short my charities for
the next quarter of a year. But he must not know these sordid details.
Some day I will be Queen. I will reimburse the poor and I will be a true
Catharine to Henry.
* * * * *
DRESDEN, _January 16, 1901_.
I brought my mite to our rendezvous. Mostly in small bills and
twenty-mark pieces. If Henry knew that many of these were earned in the
right royal fashion of having them slipped down one's stocking by a
husband, too drunk to distinguish a royal palace from a dance-hall!
He told me honestly enough how he got into debt. "How can one lay by for
a rainy day when one hasn't got anything?"
I appreciate the play of words, for I am in the same predicament.
Only once has Henry touched a card, but he lost considerably in horse
deals, as most young army officers do.
His sister made a rich marriage, but he wouldn't discover himself to
her. If she asked money of her husband, there might be trouble, for
Vitzthum is not a liberal man.
* * * * *
LOSCHWITZ, _April 1, 1901_.
The children's health called for country air and I was quasi-forced to
retire to Loschwitz, though I have a thousand and one reasons for
remaining in Dresden. Frederick Augustus accompanies us. After the
strenuous city life (in Dresden!), he needs a change and a long rest
from drinking and carousing, he says boastingly.
Of course, while he is here, I dare not invite the Vitzthums. But as
soon as he is gone, they shall come for a couple of weeks, and their
presence will make Henry's possible.
It's dreadful the way I miss the sweet boy. I suffer like a dog, when
the longing seizes me, suffer both in heart and body. When I contemplate
his miniature, tears come into my eyes. I often cry for hours thinking
of him.
And to have to endure this great booby of a husband of mine day and
night, especially nights. It's almost more than I can bear.
The grossness of his egotism reminds me of the story told of King James,
whom the English got rid of in 1689.
The Dutch William, instead of waiting peacefully for the heritage of his
father-in-law, went to claim it before his death, and James, pressed on
all sides by enemies, decided upon flight.
One Sunday, in the month of December, his devotions over, he dismissed
all his servants and advised his last partisans to turn towards the
rising sun.
After which, he lay for an hour with his wife, the better to take leave
of her."
The very thing Frederick Augustus would do if war or revolution made us
fugitives.
I never realized the diversity in our natures as much as I do now, when
all my thoughts go out to another, when even connubial tendernesses seem
like whip-strokes.
The further our souls draw apart, the more disgusting this forced
intimacy, the prostitution under the marriage vow, which I detest and
abhor.
But what will I do? Shut my door to him? He would kick it in, or climb
through the window. It's easier to submit to the violation of my person
than to breaking of locks and furniture.