I CONFESS TO PAPA
King Albert dies and King George a very sick man--Papa's good
advice--"You will be Queen soon"--A lovely old man, very much
troubled.
CASTLE SIBYLLENORT, _June 19, 1902_.
King Albert is dead. George is King, and may God have mercy upon my
soul.
Of course the demise of His Majesty changed all my plans of defiance and
otherwise. I am once more an official person, even an important one, for
the new King can't last long. He is a very sick man, in fact. Perhaps
that is the reason why he wants to hear himself addressed "Your Majesty"
all the time. Petty souls like to be called "great."
* * * * *
DRESDEN, _June 21, 1902_.
I intended to return at once to Loschwitz, but the King, hearing of my
intention and not wishing to provoke another scene, invited my father to
come to Dresden "in the interests of his daughter."
The same evening I received a wire from papa, saying that he would be in
Dresden within twenty-four hours.
My own arrival in the capital was kept secret by the King's order, but
next afternoon, when I drove to the station to welcome my father, I got
my reception just the same. The people wildly cheered their Crown
Princess and thousands of sympathizing eyes followed me from the palace
to the depot.
I was almost overcome by so much sympathy and when at last I saw father,
I threw myself on his neck, crying aloud.
The King was standing by, impatiently waiting to conduct his grand-ducal
guest before the guard of honor had drawn up. "Later, later," whispered
papa, patting me on the cheek.
* * * * *
DRESDEN, _June 22, 1902_.
I had an hour's talk with father. I bared my heart to him. I reported my
own faults along with those of the others.
Papa understands me. He sympathizes with me, but help me he cannot.
"These are only passing shadows," he said. "Look boldly into the future.
You will soon be Queen."
And he told me of his financial difficulties and of the misfortune of
being a sovereign lord without either land or money.
"The Emperor ordered me to scold you hard," he continued, "and mamma
wants me to be very severe. As to King George, he said he would thank
God if I succeeded in breaking your rebellious spirit. 'If you don't, I
will,' added his Majesty."
Then father kissed me more lovingly than ever and asked, half
apologetically: "Is it true, Louise, that you had a lover?"
"I thought I had one, but he was unworthy of me," I replied without
shame.
My confession seemed to frighten him.
"It's sad, sad," he said. "Royal blood is dangerous juice. It brought
Mary of Scots to the scaffold; it caused your great-aunt Marie
Antoinette to lose her head, only to save the old monarchies a few years
later, when we inveigled the enemy of legitimate kingship into a
marriage with another of your relatives. But for Marie, Louise, the
descendants of the Corsican might still sit on a dozen thrones."
Father forgot his daughter's disgrace when he mounted this historic
hobby-horse and, needless to say, I did not recall the original text.
Only when, three days later, he took leave of me, holding my head long
between his two trembling hands and kissing me again and again, I felt
that the poor, old man's heart was oppressed with shame and torn by
fears.