イリザ・シュレシンガーのインスタグラム(ilizas) - 11月7日 14時13分

I remember, as a young girl, riding in our carriage toward the Winter Palace. St. Petersburg was a wondrous place, a seemingly foreign land whose tongue was ever so familiar to me. I said "Papa, what are all those people doing? Why are they so sad, Papa?" And he said "they are sad because they work to hard, moy angelochek." "Why, Papa? Why do they work?" And he laughed, Papa always had a deep laugh, the kind The invited you in and ensconced you in warmth and reassurance that you were good and true. He said "they work hard because they work for you. You are the "Princesse"." I stared at them, wind withered faces, snow speckled backs, carrying barrels of treasures hailing from heights of Siberia all the way to the depths of the Black Sea. "If they are to be sad because of me, I do not want this life, Papa. I do not want to be Princesse." He laughed again, only this time the joke seemed only for him, this time it was different. His eyes grew like the ice of the banks of the Caspian Sea, his tone incontrovertible. "Then you will not survive to be Queen, Blanchastasia." And we rode past them, past the guards, through the gates, our destinies enveloped by old world opulence and tradition. To this day, what I remember most vividly about that day was the cold.

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