THE story of my life! I have often been asked to write it, and I have always hesitated to do so for many reasons.
With the death of my dear husband, King Ferdinand, a certain chapter of my life closes, and I feel therefore that I can more easily look back upon the way, the long way, already pursued; I can look at it from farther away, less personally, and that is perhaps what I have always been waiting for.
I have always wondered from what angle I should relate my own story, knowing that to a certain degree I must weigh my words, and yet I want to be as accurate, as truthful as possible; I do not want to be too dry, but I also do not want to be too passionate; feelings must not run away with me.
In a way I want to look back upon it as though I were relating someone else's story; I would almost prefer to write it in the third person, but that would be like pretending, and I have never pretended. All my life I have been almost dangerously sincere and I cannot depart from that absolute sincerity.
I think to-day I have found the angle from which I want to write my story, the angle which represents me in relation to Roumania. Let it be Roumania and I, or I and Roumania—it comes to the same thing, and have patience with me if many thoughts, many inferences and conclusions are woven in among the facts I have to relate, for life has already been long enough and events plentiful enough to have taught me many a lesson, and to have made of me something of a philosopher in my own small way.
Roumania and I—but of course I shall have to return to the far, far past, because no life can be completely told without telling also of childhood and youth, which are such factors for the forming of character, and my childhood was a happy childhood, upon which I love to look back.