PART TWO

1862–1872

V ENTERING THE WORLD Engaged · The engagement ended · Baden · Marietta · Season in Rome · Carnival at Venice

And now I was to be taken “into the world.” Our name might have given us the right to move among the highest aristocracy, for there is doubtless not a family of the high nobility of Austria with which we were not connected by blood or by marriage. But one is ill acquainted with this high nobility if one thinks that name and kinship suffice to get one received. For this there is required (it was especially so in my youth; now they have come to be somewhat less exclusive) first and foremost the possession of sixteen great-great-grandparents; in other words, the right of admission to court. This we had not—my mother was not _Geborene_; besides, our means were also very modest; so it was not possible for us to attain to the first society—the _société_, as it styled itself—of Vienna. That stung me; oh, what a vain, superficial thing I was! To think it was essential to the happiness of life to move among the _crème_, and to think I was suffering an unmerited wrong by the withholding of this happiness!

Now it came to pass that one of the richest men in Vienna sued for my hand through the mediation of the author Joseph von Weilen, who used to call at our house. Mother and guardian declared themselves favorable. To be sure the suitor was not an aristocrat, and already fifty-two years old. But he was willing to surround my existence and my mother’s with the utmost splendor, villas, castles, palaces,—I was dazzled and said “yes.”

I do not attempt to put a good face on this fact. It is an ugly fact when an eighteen-year-old girl is willing to give her hand to an unloved man so much older than herself, just because he is a millionaire! to call it by its right name, it is selling herself. If I were writing a novel I should certainly not tell such a story of its heroine, if she was intended to be attractive; but what I am setting down here is the experiences of a real person, for whose actions I am not by a long way so responsible as I should be for those of a figure drawn from fancy. For the latter would be fashioned according to my own present views and feelings, while this eighteen-year-old Bertha Kinsky—though it is I myself—is nothing more than a vague picture in memory. What the original of the picture experienced is retained in bare outlines in my recollection; it has also contributed to the shaping of my present character; but what sort of character that original itself had at that time appears to me as a thing in which I have as little part as in the caprices of Cleopatra or Semiramis.

A few pictures from this engagement episode:

The presentation: Herr von Weilen brings the suitor for a morning call. Stiff conversation in the drawing-room. Each studies the other. Pleased? No, the elderly gentleman scarcely pleases me—but does not displease me. Invitation to dinner the next day; Fürstenberg also there. Still stiff. On the fourth or fifth day a letter to my mother asking for my hand. I hesitate. That same evening we were to go to a ball—my coming out. An aristocratic picnic: the _crème_ used to appear at this ball, but not exclusively—elements of less consequence are also present. I can still see my toilet, a white dress sprinkled all over with little rosebuds. Full of joyous anticipation I entered the hall. Full of piqued disappointment I left it. I had found but few partners; I should have been left to sit out the cotillion had not a homely infantry officer, who had had his matrimonial proposals rejected in numerous quarters, taken pity on me. The aristocratic mothers sat together, my mother sat alone; the countesses stood in groups and chattered, I knew none of them; at the supper merry little coteries were formed, I was left out. On the way home I said to my mother, “Mamma, I have made up my mind now, I will accept the proposal.”

The next picture: The happy suitor, in possession of my acceptance, brings me a whole cargo of betrothal presents: a set of sapphires and a pearl necklace. He also presents to me his nearly sixteen-year-old daughter (for he was a widower), and she calls me her dear, beautiful mamma, which is great fun for me.

Next picture: A brilliant ball in the _haute finance_, in which we participate as affianced lovers. Now I am surrounded, and the most gorgeous young cavalry officers are paying court to me—one in particular begs permission to call at my house when I am married. Evidently he thinks an old man’s young wife may become interesting. But my fiancé is furious, and makes a scene with me because I propose to go out to supper on the uhlan’s arm. I laugh, leave my cavalier, and take the arm of the angry man.

“Oh, I’ll be good,” I say soothingly.

Still another picture: A drive about the city, three of us, my mother and the engaged couple, to look at house-furnishing goods, carriages, gowns; also a drive to the suburbs to look at the truly princely villa that was destined as a nuptial gift for me.

One picture more: An afternoon at our home. My betrothed and I are alone for the first time.

“Bertha, do you know how ravishing you are?” He puts his arm around me and presses his lips to mine. The first love-kiss that a man had given me. An old man, an unloved man.—

With a suppressed cry of disgust I tear myself free, and in me arises a passionate protest—No, never—

On the next day the presents were sent back; I broke the engagement. My people had indeed tried to remonstrate: the scandal—the breach of faith—I ought not to have said yes, I had not been compelled to, but to draw back suddenly now—I should at least think it over for a while yet—

“No, no—I cannot, _cannot_—I’d rather die!”

And so the letter of dismissal was sent off.

A few hours later the daughter rushed to me and wept at my feet: I must not treat her father so badly—I must revoke the cruel decision....

But there was no changing my mind now. Stubbornly I clung to my “I cannot, I _cannot_!”

Soon the whole episode lay behind me like a bad dream which I felt it a refreshment to have waked from. My engagement and disengagement had taken place at carnival time; in the summer I was no longer thinking of them. We spent this summer in Baden near Vienna, where my mother had bought a small villa. It was a jolly summer, full of picnics, watering-place music, and dancing parties.

A little circle of society was formed, including a few elegant and pretty young girls and numerous young gentlemen, mostly officers, and also the indispensable mothers; we met daily—often three times a day, at noon in the park during the music, in the afternoon walking to the Helenental, and again in the evening (if there was not a _réunion_) at the home of one family or another, or at the evening music in the park. I had formed an especially intimate friendship with a girl of my own age, by name Marietta, Marchesa Saibante. She was a striking sight: a tall and rotund figure (at that time angular thinness was not yet stylish), raven-black hair and eyes, dazzling teeth, very red lips and very red cheeks—but withal a snub nose and coarse features in general.

Marietta’s mother, a Baroness Scheibler by birth, had been married to an Italian, Marchese Saibante, and was a widow of many years’ standing. She had only this single daughter, and worshiped her. With the two lived also an unmarried sister of the Marchesa, and this Aunt Helene, as she was called, worshiped Marietta still more. The two middle-aged ladies (what a pity there is no German word for the expressively descriptive English “middle-aged”) did not let their favorite get a step away from their immediate presence. They were living in very modest circumstances, but were rather prideful, since they were related to all the illustrious families of the aristocracy. A deceased third sister had been married to a Prince Auersperg. They had also a rich uncle, Field Marshal Count Wratislav, who cherished a particular affection for Helene. This uncle was constantly being spoken of. Very often, too, mention was made of a cousin with the proud name Rohan (_Roi ne puis, prince ne daigne, Rohan je suis_). Cousin Rohan was spoken of only incidentally—not pretentiously,—“I have a cousin who is a Princess Rohan,”—but there were told anecdotes and facts that were in themselves worth speaking of, and that only happened by chance to be connected with Cousin Rohan. Query: do not most people have among their kinsfolk and friends, or even mere acquaintances, a person who is in a higher position then theirs, whom they regard as their “Cousin Rohan” and utilize for the apparently unintentional embellishment of their conversation?

That summer Elvira celebrated her marriage with Doris in See. Marietta and I figured as bridesmaids. While the breakfast was still going on the young couple left Baden for Pola, where the newly married ensign’s ship was lying at anchor.

Now I was thrown altogether on Marietta. It was a strong contrast. After my cousin,—the poetess, the scholar,—the Rohan’s cousin, who was a worldling through and through, with nothing else in her head but the enjoyments and glitter of social life. She had tasted of them, despite her limited circumstances; for she had spent a whole carnival in Prague, and had there, under the ægis of the Auerspergs, the Wratislavs, and the Rohans, danced at twenty balls and flirted (without results) with many an _épouseur_. Now in Baden it was dancing and coquetting again; Marietta and I were the belles of the season. These entertainments were now “the important thing.”—As if the world had been created for no other purpose than to be our place of amusement.

The following winter we (that is, my mother and brother and I) spent in Rome. It had come about thus. The just-dethroned Queen of Naples, with her suite, had spent this summer at the Weilburg in Baden as guests of Archduke Albrecht. The historic tragedy that had preceded, the defense and loss of Gaeta, had made but little impression on me; I only listened with interest to the stories that were told of it by the queen’s chief steward, an old _principe_, who often visited us. It was he who depicted to us the life of foreigners in Italy, especially in Rome, so temptingly, and urged us so strenuously to come there next winter that we let ourselves be prevailed upon. The prospect took my fancy greatly. Yet, to my shame, I must avow that what attracted me was not eternal Rome with the magic of its historic memories, but the portrayals of Roman society life. And it remained so during our stay. What made most impression on me there—what was to me “the important thing”—was not the Vatican and Castel Sant’Angelo and the Forum, but the Monte Pincio with its elegant Corso, the Teatro Costanza with its opera season consisting of two alternating operas (one of them _Il Trovatore_), and the balls and soirées that we attended in the palaces of the Roman magnates or in the drawing-rooms of the colonies of foreigners. I did not bring away deep impressions in any respect from that stay in Rome; it was reserved to a time many years later for me to take in, with some comprehension, the enchantment which this classic soil must exert upon any half-way receptive mind.

Our friend of Baden days, the Neapolitan _principe_, once invited us to an excursion to his home city, and took us from there to Pompeii, the Blue Grotto, and the marvelous Capo di Monte, where he owned a villa—but it was rather dilapidated, as was he himself for that matter. When he came out next with a proposal of marriage, at the close of the season when we were already packed up for our journey, I said “no” without hesitation. I would not conjure down upon myself a second time the fate which I had newly escaped—that of becoming the wife of an unloved old man. Oh yes, if my suitor’s twenty-five-year-old son, the black-eyed Duca di ..., who quite pleased me, had appeared as suitor, I do not know—but he did not take it into his head; I think he was more inclined to feel an antipathy to me, for he must have seen into his father’s plans, and a second marriage on the father’s part would presumably have been extremely unwelcome to the son. Not till afterward did we learn that in our circle it had been generally assumed that the elderly _principe_, who loaded us with attentions, had even in Baden been my unacknowledged fiancé.

From Rome we returned to Baden, where the life of last year’s season was repeated; and in the following winter, 1864, we went to Venice to go “into the world” again there.

Venice! Thee too, marvelously charming, death-pale queen of the lagoons, I learned only in much later years to understand and love. Totally insensible to her beauty I was not, to be sure, even at that time; but yet “the important thing” to me was social life. It did my heart good to be again in the vicinity of my beloved cousin Elvira. Her husband was now stationed at Venice, and the couple were living there quite secluded, but in the profoundest domestic happiness. Only two things disturbed this happiness: first, the young husband’s prospective early return to sea service, which threatened them with a year’s separation, and secondly Elvira’s unsettled health; she coughed much, and was often seized with the fear that she was consumptive. Those who surrounded her, and the physician too, would talk her out of this fear, and then she would once more give herself up to the full gladness of living.

I, meanwhile, was reveling in the enjoyment of the Venetian carnival. Venice was at that time an Austrian city, and society life moved in Austrian circles. The houses which we frequented were those of the Austrian governor, the Austrian consul, and sundry Austrian aristocrats. A rich English family named Greaves, adorned by a beautiful daughter, also kept open house, but the Italian families were hostile and held aloof.

Our life ran this course: at noon a military band played in the Piazza di San Marco, and there—just as we used to do in the Kurpark at Baden—we promenaded up and down, accompanied by whatever gallants were at hand—mostly navy officers—and continued the conversations of last night’s ball. If it rained, we sat in the cafés under the Procuratie and had our social intercourse there. At five in the afternoon we called on each other, and every evening we met at private balls or soirées. A great fancy-dress ball was given, and once—I think it was in the Wimpffen house—there was an exhibition of amateur theatricals, and living pictures with them.

The toilets that I wore on these three occasions I can still see in my memory. I do not intend to describe them, but only to show by this confession what it is that makes so deep an impression on a silly girl’s mind—and, withal, I was not even one of the silliest. They made much of my intellect—they made much of me in every way that season at Venice, so that I felt myself one of their queens. An agreeable feeling, at all events. It went to my head violently, and I took advantage of this agreeable self-sufficiency to send some suitors off with vigorous refusals. This brought upon me worldly-wise reproaches from my people; but how well it is for me that I did this, for otherwise I should be to-day the wife of some admiral or commodore, and should not have possessed that husband whose possession was my life’s consecration, nor should I have come into touch with the peace movement, in which my activities and endeavors have received their most fervid inspiration.

One may be disposed to stigmatize as frivolity the type of character exhibited by a young female who is wholly taken up with social enjoyments, who does not concern herself about the events that move the world, but who does bestow on her own toilets, worn at festal occasions, such intense attention that after forty years the memory is not yet extinct. Well, I would ask an old, ever-so-efficient general if he does not remember the clink of the saber dragging behind him when he went out for the first time after he received his commission; I would ask the most learned professor of the political sciences if he cannot still see before his eyes the color of the ribbon which he wore on his student cap.

But in these things—ball bouquet, lieutenant’s saber, students’ society colors—there lies something additional, quite other than what they are; the fragrance and clink and gleam is of the symbol; they are admission cards to the advertised great festival, winning tickets for the hoped chief prizes of the great lottery,—the Future.

Ball triumphs—I can still remember what intensified feelings of intoxication they bring with them. I say intensified, for youth in happy and care-free circumstances is in itself an intoxication. One need not be “frivolous” by a long way—in the sense of superficial and brainless—if one then plunges with a certain passionate fullness of satisfaction in the flood of social amusements; there is vibrating a peculiar electric fluid full of invisible sparks which mean to discharge themselves as happiness or as love—or at least as joy. And the warmer a girl’s emotional life is, the more her mind has been fed on poetic diet, the more proudly she feels that she has treasures of happiness to bestow, the more devoted love she feels the force within her capable of, so much the more sensitive is she to the mysterious crackle of those sparks. He who does not hear the crackle, to whose head the intoxicating foam is not rising, through whom the passionate hopes of happiness are not glowing,—well, he does find the whole business flat and vapid, and charges the young fools who are giving themselves up to all this with being superficial.

But after a few seasons a sobering-down comes to everybody. One who lets himself be forever satisfied with social festivities, even when the first flush of youth is past and the promises have not been fulfilled, who does not then recognize “the important thing” in other aims, in new duties, in serious activity, is indeed irredeemably frivolous.

Besides, I was talking of the feelings of our young girls in society at the time of my youth. To-day everything has changed greatly. The girl fresh from a good school no longer, as at that time, finds in the ball her highest joy and her only opportunity for fulfilling her vocation, a happy conquest. Dancing is being displaced by sport, and of callings that are open to women there are more every day. Society life itself has grown more tedious too: the young men shun the ballrooms; the seasons do not last so long that people get better and better acquainted and so enjoy each other’s company more and more; neither in winter in the city nor in summer at the watering-place does society meet for the whole season—they fly from place to place, from the mountains to the sea, from the northern city to the South, from Scheveningen to St. Moritz, from the Pyrenees to Egypt, up to the not distant time when from the Isle of Wight they will make excursions to the fashionable Japanese baths.

VI A SEASON IN HOMBURG VOR DER HÖHE Our way of living · My first singing lessons · The Princess of Mingrelia · Tsar Alexander II · Adelina Patti

1864—that was the year in which the Austrian troops, in conjunction with the German, were waging war against Denmark. When I call up that year in my own memory, this event plays no part in it at all. Doubtless I must have heard something of it, but, as no one near and dear to me was participating in it, what I heard was too faint a tone to leave traces on my psychical phonograph. And in general the naïve conception of martial events which was then mine, and is doubtless widespread even to-day, is that wars are things that take place as necessarily and regularly and outside of the sphere of all human influence as do processes in the interior of the earth and in the firmament; so one is not to get into a rage over them. And if they take place at a distance it is like the collision of two stars—such a thing does not really concern one, one will not let himself be disturbed in his occupations and amusements by it—at most one may find it interesting that “history” has again become active, and may be anxious to see what new lines its stylus will engrave on the map. I do not think, for that matter, that I felt this anxiety. I did not read the political part of the papers when I read papers at all (my reading consisted only of French and English books); and if I learned of the victory of the allies, and took pleasure in it, this was at most brought about by the fact that the _Düppler-Schanzen-Marsch_ was to be seen in all the music shops, with the usual pretty picture of charging soldiers on the cover, one of them in the foreground at the left waving the flagstaff on high, while at the top the bunting rolls over the whole page in such great undulations that one positively hears it flap in the wind. The cover of that piece of music has remained in my memory; aside from this, of the whole Schleswig-Holstein campaign—nothing.

The year 1864, especially the summer, brought me far other experiences, which affected me deeply and have remained indelible in my memory.

We had gone to Bad Homburg v. d. Höhe. In causing my mother’s choice to fall upon this place, the attraction of the trente-et-quarante table was certainly the determining factor. It was her intention never again to enter a gambling-room—this she had declared years ago; but now the hankering had awakened again, and also the idea that perhaps it might after all be possible to repeat the experiment that had been made at home, and to harvest a trifle of a million, which is in all cases agreeable. I did not say no to this scheme, for Homburg was incidentally a very fashionable watering-place, where I should certainly find opportunity for entertainment. My guardian did not approve at all; he thought the gambling-room dangerous for my mother, and the society that moved there unsuitable for me. Homburg was reputed to be a haunt of the Parisian demi-monde. And in fact, we used to see on the terrace that year two notably striking figures whose names are doubtless still in the memory of those who go back to the time of the second French empire, Cora Pearl and Léonide Leblanc. I was not unacquainted with the existence of the _haute galanterie_ of Paris. As a reader of the French novelists, Alexandre Dumas, Eugène Sue, George Sand, Paul Féval, who were then the latest thing, I had acquired a knowledge of the life and luxury of the _grandes courtisanes_, as they were called by those authors.—Yet, along with such society, Homburg harbored also a highly respectable community of foreigners who came to take the waters, from everywhere under the sun—especially Russians and English.

Our apartments had been engaged in advance, in a house that stood opposite the Kursaal; its owner was a banker named Wormser. Frau Wormser was a dear, sensible, prepossessing woman. With this mention I send a greeting to her in the realm of shadows.

I do not know how Homburg has developed since then. I see it before me like this: a long, wide street leading from the railway to infinity, interrupted on the right hand by a square where the Kursaal stands; along the street the houses either are hotels,—the usual Englischer Hof, Russischer Hof, or other Hof,—or bear a placard reading _Appartements meublés_. When you get beyond the Kursaal the hotels diminish, the street leading to infinity takes on the character of a small city, and into it open the little streets and alleys that pertain to the capital of the reigning Landgrave of Hesse-Homburg. At that time the last of the landgraves was seated on this throne; for two years later not only did his line die out with him, so that the landgraviate fell to Hesse-Darmstadt, but by the terms of the peace of September 3, 1886, it was incorporated into the kingdom of Prussia as a part of the province of Hesse. Hesse-Homburg patriotism, if there was any, must have been retrimmed in quick succession into a Darmstadt patriotism, a Nassau patriotism, a Prussian and an Imperial German patriotism.

Where the great street broke off at Kurhaus Square, a side street turned to the right, running opposite the Kursaal to the park. Here was the foremost hotel of the place, Hotel Bellevue, and around the corner, where the park was already beginning, stood the large three-story Weckerlin house, on the ground floor of which I had many a joyous hour—of this more anon.

When we arrived we knew nobody, but acquaintances are readily formed in watering-places. Thus it came to pass that on the very first evening, at our landlord’s bank, where my mother was having money changed (the capital for the indubitable winning of those millions), we fell in with an old gentleman whom Herr Wormser introduced to us as “Banker Königswarter from Paris.” Then when we came to the music the next afternoon Herr von Königswarter joined us, and introduced to us several other guests of the spa, both gentlemen and ladies. Thus we became acquainted with a Countess Vitztum who lived in Paris, Baron Alphonse Rothschild from Naples, and several others whom I do not now remember.

We had organized our life thus: mother spent the forenoon at her work, I stayed at home meanwhile (for it was settled as a fundamental principle that I was not to enter the gambling-rooms), and during this time I occupied myself with my piano and with my books. We had immediately rented a piano and subscribed for six volumes at a time from the circulating library, which was in the house next door. I was always a ravenous devourer of books: without three volumes of belles-lettres (novels in several volumes were the style then), two of Tauchnitz, and one of German science, I was not to be contented. In all time to which my thoughts go back, I have always, under all circumstances and in every situation, led two lives—my own and that of my reading. I mean, the events that I lived through and those that came to me through description have simultaneously enriched my store of memories; to the persons known to me in daily intercourse there have been added the heroes of my authors; it is under the influence of a double experience that what I am has taken shape. The stories of the “Thousand and One Nights” belong to my impressions of the Orient just as much as does my real stay in the Caucasus, and many a living gallant has quickened my pulse less acutely than has the imagined figure of Marquis Posa. And does not one often feel it as one of the experiences of life when from the words of a thinker or scientist a new truth breaks forth, when suddenly a fold of the veil that wraps the great mystery “Universe” is lifted?

—Well, then, I devoted the forenoon to my occupation at home. At one o’clock my mother came from her work (oh, how laborious and really hateful she said it was!) and we lunched in our room. In the afternoon we dressed nicely for the concert; at seven o’clock came dinner at the Kurhaus restaurant, mostly in company, and after it, three times a week, opera. Just then Adelina Patti, still quite young but already renowned, was singing there _als Gast_. She was receiving an honorarium of five thousand francs for every performance. I heard her in _La Sonnambula_, _Faust_, _Lucia di Lammermoor_, _Don Pasquale_, _La Traviata_, _Linda di Chamouni_, _Crispino e la Comare_. It must surely be a divine sensation to stand there on the boards, the incarnation of an ideal figure, and with the magic of one’s art to take so many hearts captive, to acquire so much glory, honor, wealth, and withal to intoxicate one’s self with the sweetness of one’s own voice,—these thoughts, joined with a certain feeling of envy, ran through my mind while Patti sang, and now I understood why my mother had felt it such an impairment of her happiness in life that she had been hindered from becoming a Malibran. Malibran, it was affirmed, had been a hundred times greater than Patti; and her voice (my mother’s) had, she said, been put on a level with Malibran’s by connoisseurs. Might not I, perhaps, have inherited this divine gift?

We sent for the leader of the orchestra at the opera to come and test whether I had voice, and if I had, to give me singing lessons. He came, tested, thought the material was good, and gave me lessons; of course only exercises for developing the voice. That was somewhat of a bore to me; I should have liked to learn a bravura aria at once, and I felt it as a disappointment that when I let a beautiful F or G swell to fortissimo and then diminish again till it died away, the Herr Kapellmeister did not spring up to cry out in enthusiasm, “Why, that beats Patti!” And so we gave up the lessons after a week—the more readily because to my mother, whose work often failed of success in most inexplicable fashion, the fee of twenty francs an hour seemed decidedly too high.

One afternoon, at the music, Herr von Königswarter said to us,

“The Princess of Mingrelia has a keen desire to make the acquaintance of the ladies.”

We had long known who the Princess of Mingrelia was, since we saw her daily in the Kurpark and at the theater, and since Herr von Königswarter, who was on friendly terms with her, had told us as much as he knew of the story of her life. Ekaterina Dadiani, formerly princess of the Caucasian country (now incorporated in the Russian empire) of Mingrelia, was a very elegant lady of about forty-six or forty-seven, still goodly to look upon, and must in her youth have been a dazzling beauty of the genuine Georgian type. She had for some years been living in Europe, alternately Paris and St. Petersburg, for the sake of her children’s education; in summer she came regularly to drink the health-giving waters of Homburg. Every morning at seven o’clock she went to the spring; she often made the round of the gambling-rooms, but never played; at the afternoon concert she used to sit in a particular place on the Kurhaus terrace, always surrounded by a whole little court. Her family consisted of two sons and a daughter. Her oldest son Nikolaus, called Niko, was at that time seventeen years old, her daughter Salomé sixteen, and her youngest son André fourteen. Her household (she occupied the whole ground floor of the Weckerlin house) comprised a secretary, the governess for her daughter, the tutor for the boys, a valet, and two maids.

After her husband’s death she had taken the reins of government as her son’s guardian. Once, hard pressed by the Turks, she herself went against the enemy at the head of her horsemen. But it had been impossible for her to hold her ground, and she had to accept the protection of Russia, a protection that was practically annexation. The heir was allowed to keep his title of Prince of Mingrelia, and his lands, but in the form of a _majorat_; the throne he must forego. A considerable appanage was set apart for the dowager princess, and at the Russian court she was allowed the rank of a foreign sovereign. She was content, for those Caucasian principalities and kingdoms—Georgia, Imeretia, Mingrelia, etc.—were always threatened by Mohammedan enemies, and under Russian safeguard they could develop peacefully, thrive, and remain true to their ancestral standards of life, their customs, their languages, and their dress.

In the princess’s company there were frequently to be seen a few Caucasian ladies wearing their picturesque home costume; she herself ordered her gowns from Worth and wore them with all the _chic_ and elegance of a genuine _grande dame_. She spoke French fluently, even though it was with a strong Russian accent; with her children she conversed mostly in the Georgian language.

The desired acquaintance was made. I brought the interesting woman girlish admiration, and she took me to her heart. Soon I became almost a child of the house. At first I only sat in the great circle during the concert; then the princess invited me to accompany her to the spring in the morning, to come and see her at her apartments, to dine with her. My mother held aloof: a few formal calls made and returned, that was all. I, on the other hand, was taken into the intimacy of the princess, who had a great predilection for young people. Salomé, her daughter, far nearer to me in years, came in contact with me much less than did her mother; she, with her hardly completed sixteen summers, was still rated as a child, and had to stay with her governess most of the time.

By her fellow-countrymen the princess was addressed as “Dedopali”; this means queen, literally “mother of mothers,” and is in that country the correct title for every female sovereign. I was generally called by the family “la contessina.” A friend of the Dadiani household, the Italian Marchese Almorini, had thus addressed me, and the designation had stuck to me. He was a comical sight, this Almorini. An old beau, always paying compliments, always skipping about, always _aux petits soins_ with the ladies. He did not show his age: he wore a coal-black wig and dyed his beard. He could relate so many stories and chronicles of times long gone by that there had grown up a standing joke that he had been centuries in the world, like Cagliostro.

The princess’s secretary, who was likewise her courier, major-domo, shawl-bearer,—in a word, factotum,—bore the name of Monsieur Ferry, and was a Frenchman. He was the picture of devotion. Since one cannot all the time be bending the upper part of the body forward as in reverential salutations, he stood with his hip sloping to one side when he spoke to his mistress, and always addressed her as “Altesse.” He was a man of about forty, with a reddish imperial and side whiskers. The old valet, called Monsieur David, a fat, smooth-shaven Swiss, had been one of the household for twenty years, had served the late prince in Mingrelia, and was the genuine type of the devoted old servant, possessing the absolute confidence of his mistress and the love of her children.

Innumerable and clear-cut are the recollections which the hours that I spent in the Dedopali’s house and in her company have left in my mind. The oriental, exotic quality, commingled with the Russian and Parisian tone of high society, spiced with romance and surrounded with the glitter of wealth, exercised a peculiar fascination upon me; I was truly downright happy in this relationship, it was to me like the coming true of indefinite, long-cherished dreams. When I entered her apartments in the Weckerlin house at any hour I had a glad and buoyant feeling. From the front room one entered a large dining-room with three windows and a balcony; at its right there was a corner drawing-room in which the princess spent most of her time, and back of that was her sleeping-room. At the left of the dining-room were the children’s rooms. It was only an ordinary _appartement meublé_, though a high-grade one; nothing of princely splendor about it; but yet by the many personal objects scattered about, by the flowers, by the fashion in which the furniture was placed, the whole had a private and characteristic stamp of its own; the very odor that filled these rooms—a mixture of orange-flower perfume, Russian cigarettes, and leather—had something personal about it. In the course of years I met the Dedopali in many places, and everywhere that she stayed this same odor hovered about her rooms and adhered to all her possessions.

I spent many hours in that corner drawing-room and listened to the words of the princess, who related to me much that was romantic in her career. She would stay in Europe a few years more, and then return to her own country with her sons. In the meantime her daughter would doubtless have married. “And you, too, Contessina, will sometime visit me in the Caucasus with your husband, will you not? You are already twenty-one, and so pretty—you must soon make a brilliant match and be right happy.—Come, I will show you what wedding present I intend for you.”

And she took me into her sleeping-room, commanded her maid to set out the jewel casket, and showed me her treasures,—a magnificent collection of pearls, diamonds, and other precious stones. She took out a pretty little brooch of brilliants.

“See, this is the _cadeau de noce, mais d’abord il faut avoir ‘le promis.’_”

She questioned me: was there no one who was attentive to me, no one who especially pleased me? No, my heart was free.—She herself, a short time before, had been not far from contracting a second marriage. The preceding summer at Biarritz the Duke of Osuna, the greatest and richest nobleman of Spain, had sued for her hand, but she could not make up her mind to it; she was now living only for the future of her children, and besides she was already taking too much delight in looking forward to her return to her native land, from which she was banished until her son Niko should have reached his majority.

One afternoon, during the Kur-concert, we were all sitting on the terrace once more in our usual places in the Dedopali’s circle. There was a rumor that the Tsar, Alexander II, was in Homburg on that day: perhaps he would come into the Kurpark. In fact, suddenly a commotion arose, and from all sides came the cry, _L’Empereur, l’Empereur!_... And down below in the park could be seen the tall, imposing figure of Alexander II, who, accompanied by his aides, was promenading below the terrace. As soon as his eye fell on the Dedopali he came hurrying up the steps. The princess arose and moved forward to meet him, and he seized her hand and kissed it. The rest of us stood at a respectful distance; but I heard when after a short conversation the Emperor proposed in a somewhat louder tone and in French, “Shall we not take a turn through the gaming-rooms?” And he offered her his arm. The rest of us followed.

At the roulette table Alexander II borrowed a few gold pieces from his companion,—either he had no money with him or else he thought that borrowed money brings luck,—and threw the stake on the red. He won, let the money stand a few times, but ultimately it was swept in by the little rake, relentless even toward autocrats.

Another episode remains in my memory, a call which Adelina Patti paid to the Princess of Mingrelia. She came accompanied by a lady companion, and remained a short half hour in the corner drawing-room, while I also happened to be there. The sort of awesome timidity with which the autocrat of all the Russias had affected me a few days before filled me now in a different way, but almost to the same degree, in the presence of this victorious yet childishly bashful sovereign in the empire of song—an empire which had stood before my mind as one of the mightiest ever since my childhood. The conversation turned principally on music, and when she was asked as to her favorite rôle, Adelina Patti named Marguerite in _Faust_.

VII HERACLIUS OF GEORGIA A disappointed dream of love

One day a new figure appeared in the princess’s circle. A man of about forty: elegant figure of medium height, regular features with a melancholy, almost gloomy expression, and a long, narrow black imperial.

“My dear cousin, Prince Heraclius of Georgia—my darling Contessina, of whom I have told you so much,” said the princess, as she introduced us.

The cousin from Georgia pleased me and I pleased him also. Such a thing is detected instantly. A lively conversation immediately sprang up between us. Now we met several times a day, for the prince was constantly in his cousin’s company, was invited to her rooms for all meals and for the evenings. In the evening they used to have music—what is called music: the oldest son drummed on the piano and sang all kinds of songs from the music-halls and the boulevards; the rest joined in; I rendered a few real piano pieces,—Chopin nocturnes, Mendelssohn caprices, and Liszt rhapsodies,—sang a few of the ballads that were lying around, and reaped a rich harvest of applause. I was admired day after day as a musical marvel.

I liked to have the Dedopali tell me about her cousin. He was the son of the last King of Georgia; properly bore the name Bagration, just as the Russian emperors are Romanofs—he was a “Bagratide.” This designation sounded to me particularly heroic and classic. He had a palace in Tiflis and an ancient royal castle in the mountains. He lived much in Europe, but frequently went back to his home in the Caucasus, where he was still treated by the population as a king. In temperament he was melancholy rather than cheerful, the probable cause being his not altogether robust health—his yellowish complexion indicated a diseased liver. To cure such ailments he alternately drank of the waters of Homburg, Karlsbad, or Vichy.

“He would cure his ailments better,” added the princess, “if he would take a young wife who would cheer him up and make him right happy, a sweet young wife like you, _ma petite Contessina_—Just try and see if you can’t turn his head a little; it has long been the wish of my heart to have him married.”

Such advice turned _my_ head a little. I really found this exotic sprig of royalty, this dark Bagratide, who was at the same time a thorough _homme du monde_, in the highest degree interesting. There is yet a step from being interested to being in love, but not a very long one. The slightest occasion, and this step is taken. This is the way it happened with me (I made use of this episode many years later in my novel _Trente-et-quarante_):

One day I had again been invited to dinner at the Villa Weckerlin. Those who sat next me at table were an Englishman—Lord Hillsborough—and Heraclius. After dinner the company repaired to the salon; the mistress of the house requested me to play something for them. Without being urged, I sat down at the grand piano and played with bravura a Chopin valse. Heraclius stood near me.

“You are an artist,” he said when I had finished.

It was now time to break up. The princess’s guests had also taken a box at the opera for that evening, and it had been agreed that we should go to the opera together.

I followed the princess into her dressing-room to rearrange, my hair a little. The locks to be curled, and the faded roses to be replaced with fresh ones. While Masha, the maid, was doing this work, I looked at my own picture set in the silver frame of the toilet mirror. How advantageously this thick polished glass showed the image: or was it the effect of the champagne that my cheeks glowed so vividly, as if they had been rouged? I took up the oval hand mirror; it showed the same dazzling color; and by means of the double reflection I could now also see the effect of the spray of roses drooping between the dark locks at the back of my neck.

The princess stood near the toilet table.

“Take a little _poudre de riz_, my love,” she said, and lifted the silver cover of a round glass jar. I pressed the puff into the fragrant powder and dabbed it against my face and neck; how cooling it was, how refreshing to the hot cheeks! And then, after the visible traces of rice flour had been wiped off with the soft rabbit’s foot, the too deep red in the cheeks had been changed to a tender rose, the lips glowed the more vividly, and the eyes sparkled darker than before.

To complete my toilet the princess gave me a sandalwood fan with steel spangles, and now we were ready.

When we entered the box the performance was already in progress. They were giving _Rigoletto_. Gilda was just rushing down the steps to meet her father. _Mio padre!—Figlia mia!_ As it were a flood of delicate waves of tone came purling down from the stage, and the thickly packed theater presented a brilliant spectacle. The impressions of life’s splendor and joy which I was receiving that day kept on crescendo.

Heraclius of Georgia was present in the box. He sat opposite me and kept his eyes fixed on me. It seemed to me as if the captivating melodies in the duet between Gilda and the duke expressed what was streaming from heart to heart between Heraclius and me, still unspoken but already understood on both sides. I listened to the fiery strains of Verdi, and slowly moved my fan back and forth, every motion sending me a breath of sandalwood. Once I slightly turned my head and met the eyes of my vis-à-vis fixed upon me full of tenderness and admiration. Then I dropped my lids, but soon, in spite of myself, I lifted them again and gave the dear fellow a long, full gaze of love.

Now the curtain fell; the princess turned around, and Heraclius stood up; he made room for various visitors who came crowding into the box, and went out. Shortly afterwards I saw him on the other side of the house with his opera glass directed on me. During the rest of the performance Lord Hillsborough stayed in the box and Heraclius did not return.

After the quartet in the last act the princess stood up.

“Let us go,” said she; “I do not want to see the coming storm and the dragging out of the bag with the corpse. Instead, let us take a turn through the gaming-rooms.”

At the exit of the auditorium stood Heraclius. He came to my side.

“The performance is over at last! Were you very much fascinated by the Englishman’s conversation?”

“I was fascinated by the Italian’s music,” said I in reply.

A long gallery leads from the theater to the gaming-rooms. Heraclius walked by my side, and I expected every moment that he would put into words what had just now been uttered through the eyes; but then the princess began to involve her cousin in a conversation, which lasted till we entered the gaming-rooms.

Here we took our stand at the roulette table, and the princess flung some gold pieces on the _tableau_.

“I am going to make a proposition,” said Heraclius to his cousin. “To-day is Wednesday, and there is a ball here; let us go to the gallery and look on.”

The princess agreed, and the little company mounted the steps leading to the ballroom gallery.

This was full of people. There was hardly a place to be found between the spectators who were leaning over the railing. We had to separate; the princess took her place at one end of the gallery, I was at the other. Heraclius joined me. It was like a tête-à-tête. Crowded by the people who stood beside us, he had to come so near me that his arm rested on the railing close against mine. What we said no one else could hear, for the noise of the waltz music prevented words exchanged at close quarters from carrying to any remoter place. It was to a Strauss waltz—the _Morgenblätter_—that the couples on the floor below were whirling. But, though I looked down, I saw little of the swarm on the floor; my ball was up above. More giddily than under the maddest galop time I felt myself whirled onward by the prince’s proximity, by his words. The atmosphere was oppressive; the chandelier near us poured out a hot and dazzling light. I kept my fan going incessantly, and with its sandalwood scent it said something to me—for scents also speak—that enravished me.

“You are a magnificent girl,” Heraclius’s flattering voice was whispering in my ear meantime. “You have all the qualities to turn the soberest heads, to set the coldest hearts to beating. I had no idea that earth contained a being who could exercise such a witchery as you—”

“Children!” exclaimed the princess, coming up to us, “it is beyond endurance here; this heat is suffocating, the light makes one’s eyes ache, the music is deafening, and there is not much to look at in the dancing of those four or five ill-gowned Homburg girls. Don’t you agree with me? Let us go!”

Well, we had to go, for it was for the princess to decide, but I assuredly did not agree with her. The heat-radiating chandelier was to me a magic sun, the noise of the wind instruments was like the music of the spheres—a more glorious festivity I had never yet experienced.

The princess and her cousin accompanied me to the door of my house. It was still open.

“_A demain, chérie!_” said the princess, kissing me on the forehead. “But not at the spring,” she added. “Come at two o’clock.”

My mother was still up.

“How late you are! The theater was out long ago!”

“We have been looking on at the ball, mamma.”

“How did you enjoy yourself? Tell me.”

“To-morrow, dear mamma!”

I kissed my mother and went to rest.

Rest? “Who ne’er distressful nights upon his bed has sat in tears,” runs the well-known poem; but whoever has not through a long night, awaking every ten minutes, kept tossing from one side of the bed to the other, with a beloved name upon his lips, a glowing beatitude in his heart,—he also “knows you not, ye heavenly powers.”

A hundred times I started up from my slumber, and if I was not at once conscious why I was so utterly happy and whom I loved so very dearly, the sandalwood fan, which lay close to me on the stand, quickly told the story. Its fragrance played the _Morgenblätter_, poured out the hot light of the ballroom chandelier, and pressed a sleeve of black cloth gently and tremblingly against a sleeve of white muslin. Then I would deliciously go to sleep again, only to be reawakened soon by a powerful heart-throb. And so it went till morning.

Once again, just as when I was enamored of Friedrich von Hadeln, I was seized at waking by the consciousness of the rapturous “I love,” and with it the still more rapturous “I am loved.” Warm, almost tangible, it gushes from the heart, sweet, tender, full of yearning and yet glad in possession—for even yearning is a possession. Thus there is on earth something which yesterday was still unknown, still not in existence, and which to-day, so to speak, fills the world,—the unspeakably precious treasure, which is so wholly and completely the “one important thing.”

I was not to see him for three days; he had gone to Paris for that time. I filled these days with studies regarding the Caucasus and its history. Not only what the Dedopali could tell me, but also what I found in the encyclopedia and in Dumas’s book _Le Caucase_, gave me a glimpse into the distant, fabulous realm whose throne should by right have belonged to my Prince Heraclius.

On the second day I received from Paris a package and a letter. The package contained a full bonbonnière from Boissier, the accompanying letter a few polite lines. There was nothing out of the ordinary in it, but it intoxicated me outright, for it was signed with the name of Heraclius of Georgia, and from its thick paper adorned with a princely crown there exhaled a faint, but peculiarly sweet, fragrance. This letter-sheet and the sandalwood fan—both told me untranslatable things.

On the third day I went over to the Dedopali’s with quick-beating heart. I found her in her usual place in the little drawing-room.

“Ah, _bon jour_, Contessina—I have a greeting to transmit to you. My cousin writes me from Paris.... He was to be here to-day himself, but—I am not surprised at it in him, he is a man of moods—instead of coming, he writes to bid me farewell for this year; he left Paris yesterday to go direct to Tiflis.”

And I—silly thing—I burst into tears.

“For God’s sake, what is the matter, Contessina?”

“Oh, Dedopali,—it is too cruel!”

“What?... that my cousin has gone home? So you are in love with him?... Perhaps it may be your fate after all,—he may come back again; don’t cry. No man deserves to have a girl cry for him if he is capable of passing by his own good luck like that. Besides, all may yet turn out as your heart desires.”

These words were a balm to me. Merely the right to hope,—that is all that youth desires. And so I hoped that Heraclius would write me from Georgia. But he did not.—

VIII NOVITIATE IN ART Back to Baden · Singing lessons · Great hopes · A test before Madame Viardot

However, it was not an inordinately long time before the image of the Georgian prince had grown dim in my memory. And gradually, once more, something quite new became the object of my life, the “one important thing.”

We returned to Baden greatly disappointed—my mother in her great hopes of gain, which had to be exchanged for no inconsiderable certainty of loss, and I in my exploded dream of love; and there we proposed to live very quietly and frugally in our country house, and spend the winter too in seclusion there.

We had a lodger in our house, an old music teacher, who had been an orchestra conductor. One day he asked to see us.

“Pardon me, Frau Gräfin, and pardon me, Komtesse,[15] if I permit myself to make this call; but I consider it my duty—it is perhaps a question of something great and rare—something extraordinary in the Komtesse’s fate, something which—” He struggled to find words.

“Well, what do you mean?” asked my mother, and I too was keyed up to a high pitch. (“Something great and rare”—those who are hungry for life are always looking for that with yearning eyes.)

“I have often heard the Komtesse sing. She has had no training at all, but she has a voice such as comes only once in a hundred years, such as I have not heard since Jenny Lind, and it really quite reminds one of Jenny Lind’s. The same meltingness, the same power, that same something,—in short, the Komtesse has millions in her throat, she has a glorious career before her if she wishes—this I had to say.”

So, then, it might be that glory and fortune were to be mine—I did not at all distrust the artistic judgment of the music teacher and experienced orchestra conductor. My mother was likewise entranced. Her old predilection for the profession of a great singer, the profession which in youth she had so longed to have as her own, caused her now to grasp with delight the hope that her old-time dreams might be fulfilled in her daughter. And the millions which she had had to let dry up in her throat, the confidently expected millions which the abominable trente-et-quarante table had denied her, should come flowing to our house after all! She immediately arranged with the music teacher to give me lessons every day.

Professor Beranek had in fact been a singing-teacher at the conservatory, and had trained several important operatic artists; so the formation of my voice could be intrusted to him. He wanted to instruct me for a year, make me thoroughly musical, give my voice the right position and fluency; after that I should have to study a year or two more with an Italian maestro, and then I might rise above the musical horizon as a star of the first magnitude. I must take up the Italian career, that was settled; my mother herself insisted upon that, for the names of Pasta and Grisi and Malibran still filled her head, and only by traveling from Paris to London, from Milan to Madrid, from St. Petersburg to America, could one win the aforesaid millions and that world-wide reputation which makes artists in song into half-queens.

Ah yes, crowns,—that was what my young ambition craved. Nothing had come of the royal crown of Georgia; that had faded into air together with the dream of love; in its place glory should now crown me, and instead of love should be Art! One can burn as passionately for Art as for a beloved. Whoever loves Art and is loved by Art—that is, whoever loves it with the power of achievement—may find life perfectly satisfying.

Now came for me a time, a whole year, when I lived for only one object,—Song; that had now become the “one important thing.” On the very day after our interview the instruction began. In order that it might make rapid progress, and I might in a year advance as far as others did in a conservatory course of several years, the lessons were fixed at four hours a day,—two hours in the forenoon and two in the afternoon, with the requisite interval of rest between. Scalesinging, vocal exercises, score-reading, the science of harmony: I was to become a thorough musician; as phenomenal in artistic schooling as in vocal talent,—simply the greatest cantatrice of the century. Herr Beranek went into ecstasies every day, and thus kept us fancying that the marvelous had really come to pass, that an enormous prize had fallen to me in the lottery of life. Or rather that a treasure-trove was assuredly within sight, but that it must be dug for. And I dug and dug with a diligence, a perseverance, a joy, that was unique of its kind. From morning till night, through the long months of the autumn, of the winter, of the spring, nothing but notes,—sung, played, read, written notes,—and yet it was a whole world, full of sweetness and beauty, full of inspiration, full of proud satisfaction. I do not know (seeing that I never attained to it) whether a successful career as a prima donna really carries with it as much happiness as is to be experienced in the preparation for it, when the time is occupied with study, and triumph seems sure.

As material for study we ordered a whole little music library: Garcia’s “Method” in two large volumes; the scores of all the operas that were to form my future repertory—all with Italian text. That was by no means a monotonous life. On the contrary, it was full of the tragic, of passion, of ebullient joy, of the tenderest devotion, of the most heroic uplift, of funereal horror, of epithalamial bliss; in short, of all the feelings and fates which belonged to the heroines of my operas. Norma, Amina, La Traviata, Lucia, Linda, I myself was—one after the other, as I sat at the piano and memorized the text and melody in which were expressed all the sadness and the joy, the sweetness and the horror, which I tried with all my might to realize so that I might one day carry it triumphantly into the souls of my listeners. And the Edgardos and Manricos, Gennaros and Alfredos, who were destined to accompany my soprano in harmonious trios and sextets,—these also I saw before me; I simply _loved_ them. Do not take it that I was imagining the singers,—they were to remain a matter of indifference to me,—but the forms created by the dramatist and composer, and all their heroism, all their poetry. In just the same manner the young girl reading her Schiller becomes enraptured by the Don Carloses and Posas, the Ferdinands and Karl Moors,—only in the study of the operas there is added the ineffable something that wells forth from the magic tones of the music. Music says things which are not contained in any language. What can now and then stream forth from a sequence of tones, from a chord, from a rhythmical crescendo, is as little to be repeated in words as is the fragrance of flowers, the taste of a fruit. There are melodies which tell a story, arpeggios which caress, chords which burn; in many measures one feels as if—now I am endeavoring, after all, to find words for that of which I have just said that it lies outside of language; it is in vain. But a hundred times more powerful yet is the enjoyment of the charm of music when one is filled with it not only as a recipient but also as a giver, as a creator; when one is himself the transmitter of this mysterious and ineffable something to the souls of others; when one feels that thousands of auditors are seized by the same waves of passion, of rapture, of exultation, or of pain.

To be sure, I experienced all this not as a reality, but only as the foretaste of a thing to come—but a thing whose coming I did not doubt, which seemed to me like a boundless wealth that was not indeed in my hands in the form of gold, but I had in my possession well-secured drafts for it. Not only did the study of the rôles afford me this enjoyment, but even the mere practice of scales and the composition of roulades, the dry work of the technic of my art, gave me gladdening and enlivening sensations. For the concept “Art” had taken hold of me with all the power that is inherent in it, that results from the worship of art in books on the history of art, and from the worship of artists by the public. When studying for the chosen calling, one feels—at least I felt—intrusted with a mission which carried with it something priestly, something holy.

The question arises, Was not vanity also involved? Was I not gloating rather over the prospect of arousing admiration, of enjoying a world-wide fame (for I was not expecting anything small, thanks to my master’s indefatigable praise and expressions of wonder), or else over the thought that the heroine whom I should represent would be so graciously personified in me, that the brilliant satin train in the first acts would make my tall, slender figure so effective, and that my loosened hair in the tragic final scene would fall down below my knees in billowy natural abundance? Should I not—apart from the might of song—also as a woman set all hearts afire?

Oh, but nothing, nothing should or could turn me from my art; all homage I would put away from me, every discreditable demand the proud lady in me would spurn, and every enticement to renounce the stage and enter wedlock would leave the proud artist unmoved. Whoever stands on the highest pinnacle of Art belongs henceforth and forever to its temple service.

Such were my thoughts and intentions as I practiced solfeggios or wrote out my harmony exercises; and I was happy in it.

We lived in absolute retirement; my guardian visited us only once or twice a month, and nothing of these musical plans was divulged to him. The first that he should learn was to be the _fait accompli_, when I had made my appearance in a great theater with overwhelming success. We had no intercourse with the families that wintered in Baden, and we never went to Vienna. It was a rigorous novitiate in art; nothing was to divert me from my studies, nothing else but learn, learn, learn, was to fill my time. I was no longer so young, and I had to make up in a single year what other pupils accomplish in four or five years.

There was only a single family which we met socially from time to time; this was two old ladies, daughters of a general, and their brother, a retired first lieutenant of hussars, also well on in years, who had a barytone voice and had missed his calling,—that of an opera singer,—to his deep regret. I sang Italian duets with him, but without letting him guess my plans of the future. I should properly say, a duet; he had no more in his repertory. It was the scene between the brother and the sister in _Lucia di Lammermoor_. We performed the piece dramatically, singing by heart and putting in all the action, I carrying myself forward into my beckoning future and my partner going back to the past that he had let slip. He was convinced that he would have made a great singer, exactly as I was convinced of my coming greatness, and most likely his melancholy conviction was just as fallacious as my joyful one was.

I remember that our duet cost us much study before we could do it together. The lieutenant was not especially musical, and did not keep time well, and I too was very prone to slip, for I had not yet begun to sing arias at all with my teacher—he insisted strictly on my practicing nothing but scales and arpeggios; the _Lucia_ duet, which was performed in the house of the Cortesi sisters, was basely kept a secret from my master.

After about a year and a half of this preparatory course, Professor Beranek made the announcement that it was now time for me to finish my studies under a famous singing-teacher. Our choice fell on Pauline Viardot-Garcia. Many artists had gone forth from her instruction; and anyhow, Garcia’s two-volume “Method” having been my gospel, in whom could I have felt greater confidence than in the daughter of that incomparable master?[16] So off went a letter to Baden-Baden.

It must have been an exuberant letter. I knew that Madame Viardot was very particular and refused many who wished to take lessons of her. To be received by her was an especial favor granted only to those who had real talent. I tried, therefore, to prejudice her in my behalf by my letter itself. I could not well speak of my talent (although, resting on my teacher’s assurances, I felt no doubt of it), so I must have written all the more of enthusiasm for art, of ardor in my vocation, and such trite things, and naturally intimated also that I desired to put myself under none but the foremost teacher in the world. At any rate, Madame Viardot answered that I might come and let her test me.

My mother and I went to Baden-Baden without delay. On the appointed day and at the appointed hour we presented ourselves at the Villa Viardot. We were shown into a small ground-floor salon and told to wait a little while. I still see the piano in the corner at the right by the window. There were several music cabinets with scores; on the walls, pictures and photographs of artists; through the open balcony door a glimpse of the garden. In the background of this was a pavilion, presumably the dwelling of Ivan Turgénief, Madame Viardot’s friend of many years.

In this waiting time I was seized by a horrible panic. Something that I had never yet felt in my life. Something that actually took away my breath and tortured me. Is this, then, what is called stage fright, _le trac_? Why, that is not at all unlike what one must feel at going to the guillotine! How can one—God have mercy!—sing in such a state?

“Mamma,” I wailed, “I shan’t be able to sing a note!”

“Don’t be childish! Who’d be worried, when you have such a voice? Madame Viardot will consider herself fortunate to get such a pupil.”

The door of the next room opened and in came the dreaded one. A lively, elegant woman of forty, with features not beautiful but interesting. There was a little introductory conversation which I do not remember, and then I was dragged to the block—I mean the piano.

“Have you brought any music? What will you sing for me?”

“All I can do is scales and exercises.”

“One can judge of your voice by those, no doubt, but not of your talent, not of your degree of ability.”

“Then, please, the duet with the barytone from _Lucia_.”

“A duet?”

“Yes, madame; so far I have not sung any pieces at all; it only happens that I know this one.”

“Very well.” She found the score and played the introduction.

My throat was utterly choked. I started in a tremble. But after a while my voice grew firmer, and after a few measures it went to my own satisfaction. Mother nodded approvingly. I believed that I had given of my best.

But the great teacher shut up the score in the middle of a measure and said, “The truth of the matter is, you can do nothing at all.”

It was as if I had been given a box on the ear and a dagger-thrust both at once.

“Let us have another trial, then, with _notes filées_—in order to see what might be made of the material—there is certainly voice there—”

And she struck low C. This test was easier for me. Still I could not give all that I had—the tones were hoarse and my breath was short. After the two octaves up to high C were tested, she stood up.

“How old are you?” she asked.

“Past twenty,” I replied with a half lie, for I was already twenty-two.

“That is too late to start from the beginning. At twenty, one ought to be already trained. And tell me, why do you really want to go on the stage? You have social standing—your name shows it.”

In reply I said something about ambition and love for art.

“That is all very pretty, but I can only advise you not to give up your position. Your voice is not bad, but it is not extraordinary, and it is questionable whether you could learn anything.”

“Madame, she has talent,” insisted my mother. “And under your instruction it would most certainly develop.”

“But I cannot tell to-day whether I will undertake to give her this instruction. The young lady must first take a few lessons, and then I will decide whether I will go on with her—yes or no. According to my impression of to-day, there is little chance for yes.”

“Oh, do not judge by to-day’s test; the poor girl was so nervous—I really did not know her.”

“If one suffers from nervousness, one is not fitted for the career of an artist; an additional reason for giving it up.”

“Her timidity will disappear when she gets used to it,” urged my mother.

“Very well, then; come next Monday at the same hour.” And we were dismissed.

We returned to the hotel, and there I gave vent to my suppressed anguish in a burst of tears.

“Never, never again will I set foot in that Viardot villa! Let us go away, mamma; I will never let myself be seen in that woman’s presence again! It is over—it is all over!” My world lay in ruins. The “one important thing” was annihilated.

IX THE YEAR 1866 Return · Elvira’s death · Fürstenberg’s death · The war · Homburg once more · Back to Baden · Baron Koller

We journeyed back to our Baden villa. Professor Beranek was indignant at Madame Viardot. For a long time I would sing no more. But at length he brought me to it.

“You will not have been the first,” he said consolingly, “who has failed of recognition at a trial and has then put the false prophets to shame through greatness fairly won.”

But my self-confidence was too completely crushed. It did not so quickly wake to new force. At the same time a hard sorrow befell me. Word came from Venice that my cousin Elvira was very ill, that her lung trouble had taken a turn for the worse, and that she was confined to her bed. Not many days later there came the news of her death. For the first time in my life I learned how it feels to lose a dear one. An incomprehensible emptiness, an unintelligible shuddering....

The bereaved mother came to us. She was on the verge of despair. Now of course all singing was hushed in the house.

The year 1866 brought me still another severe loss, that of my much-loved paternal friend Fürstenberg. He departed this life after a brief illness at his residence in Vienna. And one thing more that unblest year brought,—war.

I am ashamed to say it again, but this event made no impression upon me—none at all. I took knowledge of it just as one learns by hearsay that somewhere in the distance floods have set in, or fires broken out,—elemental events, of a very lamentable nature, but they will pass by. And at bottom the thing is not uninteresting—it is something historical. The Prussians will of course get a thrashing; and if we should lose the game, there would be peace again after it anyhow. We had no one dear to us in the army, so we were not anxious. I read no newspaper; and the stories that they told,—victories of the Prussians in Hannover, at Frankfurt, later also in Bohemia (but not much of it came to our ears, and if anything did I have forgotten it),—nothing of all that has remained imprinted on my memory: a proof that it was heartily indifferent to me.

To-day I cannot understand how I could be so stupid. Even apart from my future ardent sentiments in behalf of peace, which ought at that time to have been already dormant in the young woman of twenty-three and to have been awakened on this occasion, such a tremendous event should at any rate, even from the ordinary point of view, have stirred me, should have filled me with some kind of emotion, either patriotic enthusiasm or tingling human sympathy or, if nothing more, anxiety and terror; but there was nothing, nothing.

It would not be necessary to set down in these reminiscences the confession of such a fact, doubly humiliating for a future opponent of war, but the incongruity that is here apparent is a thing that distinctly deserves scrutiny. The most interesting thing for the reader of memoirs, I think, is always the opportunity to observe how and whereby certain destinies, talents, or deeds, which are known to pertain to the writer of the memoir, have been prepared for and developed; one wishes to trace out what inner aptitudes, and what outer influences, have contributed to the formation of the total product. From this there always result useful lessons and bits of knowledge. Provided, of course, that the autobiographer is entirely sincere: useful lessons are to be drawn only from unfalsified facts.

Here, in bringing to my present consciousness the conception of war that I then had, I myself find occasion for an interesting observation, an instruction worth taking to heart. Human society as a whole passes through just such stages of shifting ideas, knowledges, conceptions, and judgments, as does an individual man. Should not I to-day fully understand, and fully pardon, the fact that the generality of men in their preponderating mass take as cold and unconcerned an attitude toward war (when it does not lay hold directly of their own lives) as did I myself a few decades ago? Should I be amazed that this same generality regards the occasional breaking out of wars as a matter of course, a thing involved in natural law, which one may possibly sigh over, but which one cannot condemn and cannot antagonize? Against the inevitable one raises no voice of blame, strikes no blow.

And as the individual (in the case in hand, I myself) may under the influence of experiences and considerations come to have quite altered views, so may and will the generality obtain new insights and act accordingly.

When to-day in certain circles I meet with case-hardened misconception of the peace movement, when they try to show me the obvious naturalness and historical necessity of the scourge of war by arguments at which wrath and discouragement threaten to take possession of me, all I need to do, that my wrath may subside and my courage rise, is to think back to my own past. Moreover, in the matters of war and peace the generality is not even in such a state of stupidity any longer, for by this time almost every one has at least heard something of the movement, and the number of those who sympathize with it or even take an active part in it is growing every day. A greater and greater number of people are taking sides on the issue, either for it or against it; but at the time of which I am now talking the fact was that no one knew anything about the peace movement, because there was none; for the sporadic emergence of individual minds who took a stand for the abolition of war cannot be called “a movement.”

We spent the summer of 1886 once more in Homburg vor der Höhe, and although the war penetrated into our very near neighborhood there were no indications of it to be detected in the life of the bathers and gamblers at that cosmopolitan watering-place. The official band played; Patti sang; the Spaniard Garcia, who had become famous for his luck at gambling, continued to make his harvest of a hundred thousand francs a day at the trente-et-quarante table—until one fine morning he did begin to lose, and gradually put in all the millions he had won, and something of his own besides.

The Princess of Mingrelia was there again with her family, and I spent many hours of the day in her company. Her daughter, Princess Salomé, was by this time eighteen and released from the nursery, and I now kept up as lively an intercourse with her as with her mother. In age we two girls were actually better mates; an additional point was that we took riding lessons together, and every morning we used to go for a ride side by side in the roads of the park, under the oversight of the riding-master. That was a fine occasion for chatting, and we soon formed a cordial friendship.

Salomé was to be presented at court at St. Petersburg the following winter, and to be introduced into society there—she looked out into the future with joyous hopes and plans; I, on the other hand, assumed rather a melancholy and resigned aspect, as one who no longer expected much from life. The two deaths by which dear ones were taken from me had really made me low-spirited; and the collapse of my artistic dreams had left me in a bad frame of mind, but of this matter I told her nothing. I confided to my new friend only the fact that two years before I had been in love with her uncle Heraclius—now, indeed, I had got the unhappy passion out of my mind, but yet there remained a certain dejection. Salomé only laughed at me for it.

“How could one ever fall in love with such a sallow, bilious old man! No, no, Contessina, you will yet find a much better one.”

The Dedopali’s two sons also had now grown up into tall, handsome young men. Prince Niko, the older, once caused us all a fine fright. He was to have a duel. He had been pursuing a little lady from Paris too ardently, and a rival had got into a rage over it; ugly words were exchanged, and the other man announced that on the following day he should send his seconds. The scene had had witnesses, and the old princess learned of it. Weeping and trembling she told me about the misfortune that had befallen, and I wept and trembled with her. Nothing was to be done about it: duels also belong to the unavoidable dispensation of things in this world—what young nobleman could refuse to take part in them?

It was a sad business, of course, but no one in our circle dreamed of such a thing as harboring a mutinous thought against the absurdity of it. There was at that time as little talk of an anti-dueling league as of a league in opposition to duels between nations. To be exposed to murdering and being murdered was simply one of the chivalric and patriotic necessities that life brings to men. And when that is the case women can do nothing else but weep in timid admiration.

But the duel did not come off: I cannot recall now whether the opponent had left town or whether the witnesses had succeeded in effecting a reconciliation. I only know that the threatening cloud passed over, and that we were all very happy. My really deep-felt and spontaneously shown sympathy had brought me much closer yet to the Mingrelian family; and especially Prince Niko himself, as long as he lived, never forgot that I had so taken to heart the danger to which he had been exposed.

When we went home that autumn the war was a thing of the past. We took still another lodger in our Baden villa, a Saxon officer. He most courteously came to make us a call. I do not think that we talked much about the campaign just ended, for I remember only that at the Herr Lieutenant’s second visit, which was his visit of farewell, I sang something for him; I can also remember what it was,—the adagio from the grand aria in _La Sonnambula_, “Ah non credea.” The Saxon officer was enraptured.

“Oh, most gracious countess, you sing like Patti!”

“That young man has a great appreciation of art,” remarked my mother, when the lieutenant had taken his departure.

“And are you really going to stick to your decision that you will renounce an artistic career,” she added after a while; “is that reasonable, is it courageous?”

“But Madame Viardot’s decision—” I opposed hesitatingly.

“Madame Viardot is not infallible; and if you had only kept on with her for a while—”

“Not for the world would I have come into her sight again!”

“But there are other great singing-teachers; we will ask Beranek.”

Herr Beranek was still our lodger, and naturally he was ready at once to take up the proposition of resuming the musical plans. He spoke of Lamperti in Milan, Duprez in Paris, and Marchesi in Vienna as among the greatest teachers. I would not hear of Vienna, but in the very act of pronouncing this limitation I had already tacitly acknowledged that perhaps I would be content, either in Milan or in Paris, to pick up the thread which had been so abruptly broken off in Baden-Baden.

And to that it gradually came. I no longer gave a decided “no” when any one spoke to me of an artistic future, and I resumed my singing lessons with Beranek. The old love of song, the old ambitious plans, the old self-confidence awoke and gathered strength once more. The resolve to persevere in my studies, and to continue them under some famous master, matured in my mind. I wrote to Maître Duprez in Paris to ask him if he would be willing to accept an ambitious, enthusiastic pupil; he replied that he would, and so it came to pass that my life had once more found the “one important thing.”

There was living at that time in Baden an old bachelor, a former ambassador, with whom we constantly associated. His name was Baron Koller. He was tall and very thin, closely shaven, extremely correct and elegant in his attire. He owned a house near the Kurpark, externally insignificant, but furnished in exquisite taste within. Here he frequently gave us little dinners.

The contemplation of the beautiful mementos which he had gathered about him in his rooms was a great pleasure to me. I “turned the leaves” in these rooms as in an interesting book of memoirs. All those fabrics, weapons, trinkets, female portraits, had stories to tell of distant journeys, of high life at courts and in society, and of intimate love affairs. And the master of the house himself: _ancien régime_ in his manners, sparkling with wit in his conversation.

There developed between the old gentleman and me a sort of—what shall I call it?—_esprit_-flirtation, a tossing back and forth of conversational shuttlecocks. He took special delight in my mastery of the elegances of the French language, and, because I realized this, I wrote in that language a whole booklet about his home, associating with the various trinkets and pictures imaginary stories and all sorts of observations. I copied it neatly, tied it with a blue ribbon, and sent it to him. He then gave it back to me, as a loan, with his marginal notes. He wanted me to see what keen pleasure the reading of it had given him,—a pleasure which was expressed in underlinings, exclamation marks, and a few brief sentences.

One time he honored me by the gift of a cup of old porcelain with the inscription _Respice finem_. To this I made answer in a few rhymed lines, the text of which I find jotted down in the diary which I was keeping at that time:

RESPICE FINEM

Zu fluges Wort, ein hemmnis dem Beginnen, Das fühne Taten scheut in zauderhastem Sinnen; Das mit berechnend faltem Geist Das heute wegen Morgen von sich weist, Und das manchen, der zu viel ans End’ gedacht, Verzagt und flügelnd um sein Glüd gebracht.

Wagen und Beginnen liegt in jedes Menschen hand— Das Ende hat fein Weiser noch erfannt. Es trifft nicht in die vorgedachte Bahn, Wie sie ersonnen hat des Grüblers Wahn; Drum hat sich arg getäuscht, wer an das End’ gedacht, Wenn er zu lichten wähnt der Zukunft dunkle Nacht.

Des Daseins höchste Frag’ ist: Werden und Bestehen, Es wirke alles ohne Sorge ums Vergehen. Die Blüte denkt ans Welken nicht, Ums Löschen unbekümmert strahlt das Licht; Im Weltenplan hat Gott ans Ende nicht gedacht, Denn was er schuf, hat ohne Ende er gemacht.

THINK ON THE END

Too shrewd a phrase, by which the start is checked! It shuns bold acts and dallies to reflect, And, coldly calculating, thrusts away For some To-morrow’s sake the sure To-day; It brings the chance of happiness to naught For many, who too much upon the end have thought.

Daring, beginning, lies in each man’s hand; The end no sage’s eye has ever scanned. It does not come by such a course at last As by the purblind reasoner was forecast. Therefore he sadly errs who on the end has thought, If to light up the Future’s darksome night he sought.

To grow, to hold our ground, is life’s supreme affair. No anxious thought of perishing should enter there. The flower on fading does not think, The light does not in fear of quenching sink. God, when he planned the world, upon the end ne’er thought, For endless did he make the universe he wrought!

He often sent me books from his library, and I wrote down for him my impressions regarding them; and so back and forth went messages, flowers, bonbons, and manuscripts,—a real flirtation! But it was wholly without erotic background; for the gallant diplomat might have been my grandfather.

X RESIDENCE IN PARIS Singing lessons resumed · Maître Duprez · The school in the Rue Laval · In the house of the Princess Mingrelia · In the imperial box at the opera · Summer at Duprez’s place in the country · Return to Paris · Princess Salomé’s engagement · Prince Achille Murat · The wedding · With the young couple · Off to Baden-Baden

At the beginning of the year 1867 we traveled to Paris.

But, I remember, of the powerful impression which it must produce on every one to come for the first time to the mighty metropolis about which one has heard and read so much,—of this impression I felt very little, my mind was so full of the “one important thing.” Even the prospect of the pleasure of meeting the Dadiani family of Mingrelia again here did not come so close to me; the only thing that I could think about, that made me tremble with terror and excitement, was the question, How will Maître Duprez judge of my voice, what progress shall I make, and what shape will my artistic career take?

The maestro owned a mansion on the Rue Laval, in which was a hall with a stage. Adjacent were small study-rooms in which the maestro and his son, Léon Duprez, gave private instruction. Every Friday the more advanced students gave arias and scenes from operas on the stage, and the little theater was filled with an audience of their friends and of strangers from outside. On the other side of the court was a small _hôtel_ used as a residence by the Duprez family, which consisted of the father and mother, the son and daughter-in-law.

At our first visit in the Rue Laval we were conducted into the theater building. First we went into a small waiting-room, around the walls of which ran bookcases full of opera scores. Students of both sexes were sitting and standing about, chatting. In the theater too a few scattered individuals were sitting and listening to the performance of a quite young girl who, with the accompanist of the establishment, Monsieur Maton, was practicing the Rosina aria, _Una voce poco fa_. Monsieur Maton had written out most artistic colorature for her; it purled and warbled like anything.

So then this school enables one to reach such a bravura! It inspired me with courage and the resolution to be very industrious.

Still, what verdict would the maestro pass on me after the test?—surely not like the severe Viardot. With quaking heart I mounted the steps to the stage, behind which was the room where M. Duprez was waiting for me. A benevolent old gentleman, well along toward eighty, but lively and vigorous, came to meet me. He had white curly hair, ruddy cheeks, and smiling eyes.

“Well, mademoiselle, so it was you who wrote me that enthusiastic letter, was it? You want to be something great or else nothing at all, do you? Well, then, let me hear how your voice sounds, and see if you can read notes.”

He handed me a book of original solfeggios and sat down at the upright piano. This time the test resulted favorably.

“Beautiful voice; I shall be able to make something of you—in two years you shall be _la première force_.”

I was happy, simply happy! Now the hours of instruction were settled; I was to have lessons twice a week. That was not enough for me.

“I should like to come every day, maestro.”

“You may do that; on the other days my son or M. Maton will practice with you. But I have only two hours a week, that is to say, half hours, to spare; that is quite enough.”

We rented and furnished a small flat in the Rue Laval, and forthwith began for me an active epoch of study, bright with hope. I spent all my forenoons in the theater building of the Hôtel Duprez, always accompanied by my mother, a thing which seemed rather tiresome and superfluous to the others who frequented the school. I put myself wholly into the _do_, _re_, _mi_, and into a little aria which the maestro had composed and which he gave me to study for my first piece. But I felt especial interest in my fellow-pupils, who were on the most various levels of ability; and the Friday performances, as I did not yet participate in them, were to me a great enjoyment. When later I myself had to sing up there it was an agony to me, to be sure; for the old nervousness came over me again, and I won no applause. But this did not take place till after the lapse of some time; for the present I was busied only with learning, and I went at it in joyous mood.

In the public recitals there participated also some of the maestro’s finished pupils who were already filling engagements at the theaters and had attained celebrity: the tenor Engel (known as Angèl); Mademoiselle Marimon, the _chanteuse légère_ of the Opéra Comique in Paris; and Jeanne Devriès of Brussels,—all three artists of the first rank. A young sister of the last-named, Fidès Devriès, had begun taking lessons only a short time before, and was the favorite of the maestro, the admiration of the whole class. She filled me with green-eyed envy. She was pretty as a picture—I could have forgiven her that, but she was sixteen years old, which put my twenty-three to shame, and she was making such rapid strides that although she had been in the school only a short time she already sang like a virtuoso and without the slightest nervousness. Ultimately she was engaged at the Paris Grand Opera, where she made her début as Ophelia with huge success. When I witnessed with what facility young Fidès learned the most difficult coloratures, with what correctness she read at sight, what peculiar magic dwelt in the timbre of her voice, and with what freedom and assurance of victory she moved on the little stage, always greeted and rewarded with the applause of the listeners and teachers, I was compelled to say to myself: “_That_ is talent, that is the special gift, that is the something that lies beyond ambition and industry, which one cannot attain but must _have_, and which I have not....”

I was in and out of the house of the Princess of Mingrelia a great deal. I did not divulge to her anything of my artistic plans. She supposed the “Contessina” had come to Paris merely for the sake of being with her and her daughter, and she invited me to all her dinners and receptions. Together with her family and a numerous body of servants she occupied a suite in the Hôtel du Louvre, with private entrance and private stairway. In the long array of reception rooms, and especially in the salon filled with flowers and bric-a-brac where she usually kept herself, there was once more the odor of Russian cigarettes and orange flowers. I felt myself transported back to the Weckerlin villa at Homburg, and could not help thinking of my infatuation for the Georgian prince, the Bagratide Heraclius. I inquired about him.

“What! Is his picture still alive in your heart, little Contessina? Well, he is soon coming to Paris ... and if you can’t have him, we will find another husband here for you, for it is high time you were married—twenty-three already, that is almost being an old maid! I shall marry off my Salomé before she gets to be twenty; only it is a pity, dearest, that you have not a good big dot. That is the main question here in Paris. Grace and beauty do not suffice. Salomé is to get an income of fifty thousand francs, a present that her brother Niko gives her; with that it will be an easier matter to find a good _parti_. And I already have my eye on some one, a member of the imperial family.”

“Of Russia?”

“No, of France.”

The princess and her daughter never missed any of the Empress Eugénie’s _petits lundis_, and the Empress herself had proposed the marriage plan to which the Dedopali referred. She would not say anything more definite about it just then, and even Salomé, whom I questioned, professed to know nothing at all of the matter.

The imperial box at the opera was frequently put at the disposal of the two ladies, and they often invited me to accompany them. One morning, when I came to my lesson at the music school, young Madame Duprez called to me:

“Were you at the opera yesterday evening?”

“Yes; Madame Sass was a splendid Valentine.”

“So that was you, was it? In the Emperor’s box?”

“Yes,” I replied, inwardly amused, in a tone as if it were my usual habit to occupy such places and no others at the theater. I felt that the incident made an impression on the whole school; evidently they were not in the habit of seeing the pupils in the monarch’s box. In the Mingrelian salon, on the other hand, my musical performances made a great impression again; there they were evidently not in the habit of seeing dilettantes sit down to the piano and treat the company to concert waltzes and colorature arias. Little—say, petty—gratifications of vanity.

The expected Prince Heraclius of Georgia did not come to Paris. Probably if he had come the flame in my heart would have flared up again, and the ambitious dream of becoming a great lady might have displaced that of the “great artist”; all the more because doubts about my talent kept growing upon me, the wretched nervousness refused to be overcome, and when I performed on the experimental stage I was unable to make a real success. Only my mother kept stimulating my courage and ambition; the maestro, too, promised that in a year or two of study he should form me into a superior artist, and I persevered.

The next summer (the Mingrelian family had gone off to the German watering-places again) we betook ourselves to the Duprez country estate, to continue the instruction there, it being interrupted in the school at Paris. In October we went back to the city, and the Mingrelian family too moved into the Hôtel du Louvre again. The old life of the preceding year was repeated: artistic interests and enjoyments in the Rue Laval, social interests and enjoyments with my Asiatic friends.

One day toward the end of the winter I received from Princess Salomé a dispatch: “Enjoy my good fortune with me; I have just become engaged to Prince Achille Murat.” On the same day she had sent me a card by mail, which I received a few hours later than the telegram. The little yellowed forty-year-old card is still among my old papers. I reproduce it in full:

Princesse Salomé Dadiani de Mingrélie Ma bien bonne Contesco, venez demain à deux heures précises—vous passerez la journée avec nous. J’ai une foule de choses très pressées à faire et je m’adresse à vous comme à _mon amie_ dévouée, pour vous demander votre aide. Ne m’oubliez pas auprès de Mme. votre mère. Soyez bien exacte.

I joyously obeyed the summons—there is nothing in the world more interesting to young girls than an engagement—and found the whole house in happy excitement.

I was told how it all came about. The affair, contemplated during the preceding winter by the Empress Eugénie and the Princess Ekaterina, had been brought to a satisfactory conclusion the week before. The Emperor undertook to provide his nephew with an allowance of fifty thousand francs a year, which excellently comported with the bride’s similar income; he also agreed to pay the young man’s debts.—Well, yes, debts—it was known to the whole town that he was one of the most extravagant high-livers in Paris. Among the diamonds of the then so celebrated “belle Hélène,” Hortense Schneider, were many jewels which Prince Achille Murat had laid at her feet. The prince was regarded as one of the handsomest of the young people in high society. The son of Prince Lucien and an American woman, he very much reminded one of an Englishman in his manner, in his accent, and in the blond type of his face. All this I knew from hearsay before the news of the betrothal came to me.

I found the fiancée busily engaged in sending announcements of her good fortune to all her St. Petersburg and Parisian acquaintances, and I must needs help her address the envelopes. She was really happy. To be sure the whole affair was arranged by the relatives on both sides, and she had seen her fiancé only three or four times; but in those circles, especially in France, they are used to having marriages contracted in this way. And the dazzling appearance of her suitor when introduced to her had thrown a spell over her: she was genuinely in love with the young man, and heartily enjoyed the thought of becoming “Princesse Achille Murat.”

Now she had before her also the interesting task of making up the trousseau, of superintending the appointments of a little _palais_ in the Elysée quarter, and of receiving the wedding gifts, the first installment of which had appeared that very day in a “river of diamonds” that her own mother had given her, and a pearl necklace which her fiancé had laid at her feet. So she had, as the old song[17] puts it, “diamonds and pearls”; she had beautiful eyes as well, a twofold princely crown, a hundred thousand francs of income, her nineteen years, and a handsome husband: “Darling, what more would you have?” To me also all this seemed at that time like the pinnacle of human happiness, and I honestly rejoiced with my friend. Later, much later, I learned that there is something “more” than all that, that there is a happiness which in its inward depth, even in very limited circumstances, is more radiant than any external glory, any affluence. Oh, my unspeakable married bliss ... but I will not anticipate.

On that same day I became acquainted with Salomé’s fiancé; before that time he had been no frequent visitor at the house. The first call which he had made, a few days previously, had been connected with the ceremonious proposal for the hand of his chosen. “Chosen” is the wrong expression; I should have said “the lady intended for him.” He pleased me very well—twenty-one years of age, exceedingly tall and slender in figure, a thin blond imperial, dazzling teeth, faultlessly elegant and assured behavior. It must be confessed, not a trace of tenderness: as he preserved a severely correct, not to say chillingly ceremonious, behavior toward every one, so he did even toward his betrothed.

Every morning, from that time forth, came the traditional great bouquet of flowers, sent to the house by a messenger, and in the afternoon appeared the suitor himself to _faire son cour_ for a brief hour.

The wedding was celebrated in the early days of May, 1868. A wedding which embraced three separate ceremonies,—first the civil service in the _mairie_, then a forenoon wedding according to the Catholic rite in the Tuileries, in the presence of the Emperor and Empress, and at nine o’clock that same evening in the Greek church according to the Orthodox rite. I participated in this last ceremony as first bridesmaid. My function consisted in holding a crown over the bride’s head during the whole marriage service. An illustrious company filled the brightly lighted, flower-decorated chapel. The ladies’ toilets were of great magnificence. The bride wore a veil which had been made for her at Brussels, with her family arms, the Golden Fleece, woven into its fabric. It flowed down from a diadem of diamonds, the Empress Eugénie’s wedding gift. The bride’s mother was adorned with the stars and ribbons of various orders. Among the jewels that were here displayed, I was especially struck by the historic set of emeralds which the bridegroom’s sister, the celebrated beauty Anne Murat, the wife of the Duc de Mouchy-Noailles, had put on in honor of this solemn occasion.

And is it not to a certain extent humiliating that I myself on this occasion allowed the parade of toilets and jewelry to sink so deep into my mind that at this day I can still see it all? I will even confess that I remember what I myself wore,—a gown made by Worth, of white gauze over rose-colored silk lining, garnished with innumerable little _volants_ from the waist to the train—it is to be hoped that at that important and solemn hour when my friend stood before the altar to be dedicated to an unknown destiny, I thought of something besides those many little spangles; but it is a fact that I still see the rose-pink shimmer rippling through the white threads of the gauze.

After the wedding there was a small ball at the princess’s. The innumerable _volants_ had an opportunity to whirl around in the dance, and I remember that my partner in the first quadrille was a Prince Bourbon. The newly wedded pair had disappeared from the festivity early and unobserved. They had decided not to take a wedding journey; they took up their residence at once in their newly furnished _petit hôtel_ in the Rue de Pressbourg.

There I spent many hours. Salomé usually invited me to dinner, and I was expected to come an hour earlier so that we might have time to chat before the husband and the guests should appear. After dinner, especially when we three were alone, we usually went to some one of the so-called _petits théâtres_, which Salomé was not allowed to attend before she was married, and which it now gave her much amusement to become acquainted with. I ought not by rights to have been taken along either, being still unmarried; but, in the first place, now that I was twenty-four years old I was no longer included in the category of young girls, and in the next place, in the _baignoire_ we were invisible to the general public.

My friend seemed to feel very happy; at least she was always cheerful and in good humor, and took delight in all the festivities and receptions that were held in her honor in the circle of her new family, at court, at her husband’s parents’, at the Mouchys’. She took me with her to her relatives, and so I shared in many of these entertainments. But the season soon drew to an end, summer was upon us, and society scattered.

The young couple went first for a few weeks to the ducal château of Mouchy, and planned to be at Baden-Baden for the rest of the season. Hereupon I urged my mother that we too should go to Baden-Baden. During the last part of the time I had greatly neglected my singing lessons in the Duprez school; it was becoming clearer and clearer to me that I had not such great talent as I had imagined, and I hoped in my secret heart that a sojourn in the great world’s splendid watering-place, where I should be included in my friend’s circle, might perhaps turn my fate in a different and happier direction. My mother may have cherished the same hope, or else she felt a drawing to the trente-et-quarante bank in order once more to test whether the old gift of divination might not make its appearance even now; in brief, we started off for Baden-Baden.

XI SEASON IN BADEN-BADEN Resumption of trente-et-quarante · Baroness Seutter · Acquaintance with King William I of Prussia · A letter from the king

We took up our quarters in the large Villa Mesmer, situated opposite the Kursaal, where Queen Augusta of Prussia was accustomed to lodge during her yearly visits to this watering-place. She was not to arrive till a few weeks later, and in the meantime we were assigned to a part of her suite, including the large drawing-room, the windows of which gave upon the park. Impatiently I awaited the arrival of the Murats, who had already engaged rooms at the Villa Stéphanie. The interesting life would begin only when my friends should make their appearance.

While waiting for them I made the acquaintance of a charming woman who was domiciled in Baden-Baden—the Baroness Seutter. She conceived a great predilection for me and frequently invited me to her house, where the local society of the city were accustomed to gather.

My mother, who long ago had passionately abjured all gambling, began again—merely out of curiosity, just for once—to risk a gold piece or two. And lo and behold, the results of the early tests followed! Could it be that the marvelous gift had awakened again? We could at least try it and see, as long as it would last. And in reality the luck held; the originally wagered ten louis had grown into a little pile of thousand-franc notes—if this would only hold out for a couple of months, with gradually increasing stakes,—and why not?—then would _la réussite_ be made. All the extinguished hopes flamed up again.

One day I received the disquieting news that the young Murat couple had changed their plans and would not come that summer to Baden-Baden; the rooms in the Villa Stéphanie were given up. We also were now compelled to leave our quarters, as Queen Augusta’s arrival was imminent. It would have been reasonable of us to go home, since the object of our coming—to be with the Murats—had failed; but we preferred to remain. The laborious business of winning in the Kursaal had indeed for a time dropped off, then started up again, and again dropped off—this last time, however, only from blunders which might be avoided later, and so it seemed necessary to make further tests. And I had many opportunities of amusement in consequence of my acquaintance with the Baroness Seutter; so I also would rather remain in brilliant, wonderfully beautiful Baden-Baden than return to our own simple Baden. In place of the rooms which we were compelled to vacate in the main villa our landlord gave us pleasant quarters in a _dépendance_.

Shortly after Queen Augusta’s arrival the old king, William I, also came to Baden-Baden with the intention of staying about a week. From our windows we could see the main part of the villa and the king’s working room. He sat there every morning at his writing-table, which was moved up close to the open window, and he could be seen there as he worked.

Nay, it was my lot before very long to see the victor of 1866 close at hand and to make his personal acquaintance. I ought properly, as an Austrian, to have cherished patriotic resentment against our vanquisher; but I confess that I felt nothing of the sort—only a huge respect for these very victories. The idea of a winner of battles, a conqueror of countries, was to me still, as my history lessons had made it, the sum of all greatness, of all glory. Of course some one must suffer damage in order that victories and conquests may be attained; that in this case it happened to be my native country that was hurt, was a circumstance which could not make the king less lovable—I certainly would not wish to be so egotistically unfair. Moreover the old man was well known to be fascinatingly affable and thoroughly kind-hearted; in short, I could not cherish any patriotic rancor against him.

Frau von Seutter invited me one evening to accompany her to her box. It was the performance of an Italian opera, but I cannot remember what work was presented. I only know that we sat next to the grand-ducal box, and that King William was one of the occupants of it. He nodded a greeting to Frau von Seutter and kept looking across at us. On the following day the baroness proposed that I should go with her to a musical matinée at Madame Viardot’s—there the most fashionable public was sure to be found; but I would not be persuaded. I never wanted to be seen by Madame Viardot as long as I lived! In the afternoon Frau von Seutter told me that the matinée had been most brilliant. Among those who were present was the King of Prussia. He had asked her who that young lady was, at the opera the evening before; he thought he had recognized his neighbor whom he had often seen from his window.

A few days later I saw the king again at a soirée which a great society lady—I cannot now recall her name—had given in his honor. Living pictures were a part of the entertainment. In the course of the evening Frau von Seutter presented me to the old monarch.

“Oh,” he cried smiling, as he extended his hand, “we have known each other for a long time—from our windows!”

From that time forth it very frequently happened that the king addressed me in the Kurpark, where, during the afternoon music, he used to walk up and down before the Kursaal, in the midst of the guests, and that he then continued his promenade for a while at my side, chatting with me. I have no diary of that period, and therefore cannot reproduce the tenor of these conversations. I remember only that I asked him for a photograph, which was courteously furnished with his autograph on it. I was required to give him mine in return, but the king found it a poor likeness and asked for another. After a few days he departed from Baden-Baden. On the morning of his departure I sent over to him the desired photograph with an accompanying note. What its contents were I do not now know, but I must have made some reference to conquest—possibly with an allusion to 1866. The answer that he sent back is in my possession. It was put into my hands by a special messenger just as I was on the point of going with the Baroness Seutter and a few other ladies to the railway station to present the departing king with some flowers. Here is a copy of the letter:

Baden, 23. 10. ’68

I have just received your photograph, gracious countess, _somewhat_ better than the one which you were kind enough to hand me yesterday. In permitting myself herewith to express my most sincere thanks for it, I must likewise do so, and still more feelingly, for the kindly lines that accompanied the picture. In the passage about conquest an error seems to have crept in; you probably meant to say that you knew very well that you had made a conquest, the conquest of a graybeard in his seventy-third year, whose sentiments still often receive very lively impressions, especially when, though only too infrequently, they are kept fresh by a vis-à-vis!

Most earnestly recommending myself to your continued remembrance, I remain, gracious countess,

Your very devoted Wilhelm Rex

XII PARIS AGAIN Return to Paris · Renunciation of an artistic career · A dream of Australian gold · Betrothal of Heraclius of Georgia

The Baden-Baden season was coming to an end. The Princess Murat wrote me that, as her plans for the summer had fallen through, we must return to Paris again in the ensuing winter, and there make up for what had been missed; she would give me many opportunities of enjoyment with her. We obeyed this suggestion, and journeyed back from Baden-Baden to Paris.

I refused, however, to go on with my lessons at the Duprez school. Singing had ceased to be the “one important thing.” Now that I had lost the conviction that my talents could raise me to the highest pinnacle of that art, I would give up the thought of practicing it publicly, and hereafter would merely exercise it for my own private enjoyment. My mind was now more and more directed to “high society”; association with all the princely, imperial, and royal personages had perhaps gone to my head. At any rate, the democratic tendencies which have marked my maturer years had not as yet been awakened.

During the last part of our stay at Baden-Baden a young man had managed to obtain an introduction to me, a very young man, who paid me notable attentions; every day he used to send me a magnificent bouquet. He was an Englishman, but born in Australia, where his father, it was said, had enormous possessions. I had not given further thought to this handsome youth, who, being apparently eighteen or nineteen, scarcely seemed a suitable candidate for marriage with me now that I was twenty-five, until one day he sent in his name at our Paris residence and begged permission to bring his father, who had just arrived from Melbourne. We consented, and the next day we received a call from an elderly gentleman, who was so lame that he had to be carried upstairs.

“Ladies,” his discourse began, “I am going to tell you without circumlocution what has brought me to you. In all probability I have not long to live, and I have an only son whose happiness in life I would gladly see assured. To be sure he is young to be married,—twenty years old,—but with us early marriages are not rare. He has fallen passionately in love with you, my dear young lady, and begs me to ask you for your hand; this I accordingly do with all formality. You will perhaps find this somewhat presumptuous on such a short acquaintance; but in the first place I have a very brief time before me,—I may be called away at any moment,—and in the second place I have so much to offer that there is no undue pretension in my acting as I do. I am the richest man in Australia. Among other things I own a whole street in Melbourne. My boy is my sole heir,—but even during my lifetime I am ready to settle upon him and my daughter-in-law a kingly fortune. The choice of the place where they may decide to live is left entirely to the young lady. At all events a _hôtel_ in Paris shall be bought. It is of course necessary that you be able to obtain information about us: apply to the house of Rothschild, to which my letters of credit are directed. And now I beg of you to take a week to decide this question, and meantime to permit my son to spend an hour or two every afternoon in your house, so that the young people may become better acquainted. I myself am too ill to repeat my visit very often.”

After this pretty discourse, to which I made no reply and my mother only spoke a few words about “surprise” and “thinking it over,” the old gentleman bade us farewell, and we were left alone with our amazement. That same evening I related the circumstance to my friend and her husband.

“What fabulous good fortune, Contessina! You must seize it....”

I made some protest: “But I scarcely know the young man, I do not love him, I am too old for him....”

But my friends parried these objections. Especially Prince Achille threw himself into the matter. He offered his services to make the necessary inquiries, and, through his real-estate agent John Arthur, to see to the purchase of a magnificent _palais_. He ventured the prophecy that I should have the finest salon in Paris. Even if the young man did not boast an aristocratic name—_I_ contributed that; and millions, so many millions, mean far more nowadays than rank and title. All this sounded very pleasant to me; my mother regarded the affair as a great stroke of luck, the young man was elegant and handsome and seemed to worship me,—so we said Yes.

Then the father appeared a second time and invited us to a drive which put me into a genuine Arabian-Nights frame of mind. We drove through the Champs-Élysées; it was for me to select one of four or five splendid palaces which were for sale. My choice fell on the Hôtel Païva,—a regular jewel casket, which Count Henckel-Donnersmarck had set up for the beautiful Madame Païva.

From the Champs-Élysées we drove to the Rue de la Paix. My future father-in-law had us stop in front of a great jewelry establishment. His valet lifted him out of the carriage and assisted him into the shop, where an easy chair was put at his service. The rest of us stood near by. He ordered them to show us the richest jewels that were to be had. The complaisant jeweler brought out his most magnificent wares, and the velvet caskets as they were opened disclosed to my eyes the prismatic sparkle of solitaires and the mild glory of pearls as big as peas.

“What is the price of this _rivière_?” asked the Australian.

“Two hundred thousand francs,” was the answer.

Then turning to me, “Does that please you?”

Yes, it pleased me! And now he took up a pearl necklace.

“That is not bad,” he commented, “but it has only three rows; could one not have five?”

“Of the same size? That would be difficult to obtain,” replied the jeweler.

“Well, we will not decide to-day,” said the old gentleman, and we left the shop.

“I want to go to a few other jewelers,” he said, when we took our seats in the carriage, “but not to-day. I now know what your taste is. Moreover, I have brought with me from Australia some stones which are far finer and larger than those we have seen here. I will have them mounted as a diadem.”

I rejoice to this day that I had that drive in Paris. I experienced thereby a sensation which it is vouchsafed to few human beings to enjoy,—the feeling of having immeasurable wealth at one’s command; of being able to secure, by merely nodding, anything that money can buy. At the first moment it is an intoxicating sensation, but—this observation I also value: the intoxication soon passes away and gives place to a certain sense of surfeit; it comes over one like a weariness, “If one can so speedily have everything that one wishes, what then is left to wish for?” And then, above and beyond the treasures that money provides, how many treasures there are which are not purchasable,—love, glory, honor, lightness of heart, health—what good did his row of houses in Melbourne do the poor lame man? And I, instead of belonging to a strong, influential, well-beloved husband, to whom I might look up, on whom I could rely—this lad....

Prince Achille came to us in order to make the acquaintance of my suitor. I think he did find him rather insignificant, but that seemed to him only one thing more in his favor.

“You will make of him whatever you want; you will be able to twist him around your little finger!”

He invited him to dinner for the next evening. But the next evening, after we had been waiting for our guest a quarter of an hour, a message came: “Mr. F. is ill and begs to be excused.” The next day the indisposition had fortunately passed away. Inquiries at the Rothschilds’ brought no detailed information; the head of the house was at Nice, and the clerks could only report that a letter of credit bearing the name in question had actually been presented and honored. And now the betrothal was to be solemnly celebrated. Prince Achille’s parents had the friendliness to offer their house in which to hold the banquet, and they sent out the invitations. Arrayed in a sky-blue toilet which I had had fashioned at Worth’s for the occasion, and with a throbbing heart, I entered the salon. The carriage had been delayed on the way, and so we—my mother and I—got there rather late. The whole company was assembled, but the future bridegroom had not as yet arrived! A painful quarter of an hour elapsed, and then, the one expected still failing to appear, we went out to dinner. I was seated at the right of the aged head of the house—the place at my right remained vacant for the time. We had reached the third course, in a very painful frame of mind, when a note was brought: “Mr. F. begs to be excused; he has been suddenly taken ill.” After this the dinner went off very stupidly. Of course the engagement toasts had to remain undelivered, and the champagne glasses were drained only to the speedy recovery of the absent one.

I foreboded nothing good. This repeated excuse to my friends, and at the betrothal banquet above all things, and in such a cool tone,—what could it signify? The mail brought me the next morning an explanation of what it meant: a letter from the father,—only a few lines, with the tidings that the two men had gone to England. They had come to the painful decision that the engagement must be broken. The disparity of ages was too great, for the young man was—it had to be confessed—not twenty but only just eighteen. “Farewell, and may you be as happy as you deserve. Yours truly.”—

And that was all! The whole fairy-tale dream blown away! Later we learned that all that row of houses in Melbourne, and the rest of the millions, were only figments of the imagination.

Of course for a time I was hurt and humiliated on account of this episode. I felt that I had been made a mock of before the whole Murat family. Still my friends endeavored to sustain me and kept assuring me that all the discredit fell on the two Englishmen, and that it was really a piece of good luck to be rid of those erratic people. And soon I really became reconciled.

The same winter I had another experience which lives in my memory. One day I received a note bearing the signature “Princesse Annette Tschawtschawadze,” inviting me to call upon this lady at the Grand Hôtel, where she and her two daughters, Lisa and Tamara, were sojourning. At Homburg I had known Princess Annette, who was a sister-in-law of the Dedopali, and I was delighted to see her again.

An interesting incident in her life had often been told me. The notorious Circassian leader Shamyl had once abducted her. It was at the beginning of the fifties. The young woman was sitting with two of her younger children and a French governess on the veranda of their villa in Kachetia, when suddenly a band of horsemen fell upon them. The men leaped off, tied the women securely, and lifted them up on their horses. The two children were put into Princess Annette’s arms, and away went the troop. In addition to her terror, the young woman experienced the fearful agony of having one of her children slip from her arms as they kept growing weaker, and seeing it crushed under the horses’ hoofs. The whole abduction was for nothing but ransom. The ladies were treated with the most scrupulous respect in Shamyl’s abode; only he set a very high price on their release—not a price in money, but some political concession or other. The ransom was granted, and Princess Annette was given her liberty; but never in her life could she recover from the horror that she felt at the moment when her child fell from her arms.

I found the lady in her hôtel salon, and among the visitors (oh, surprise!) I perceived Heraclius Bagration, Prince of Georgia. And still greater was my surprise when Princess Annette presented to me her seventeen-year-old daughter Tamara and the elderly gentleman as—affianced!...

It did give me a shock; but my feelings for him had long ago cooled down, and so I was able to offer tolerably unembarrassed and sincere congratulations.

XIII THE YEAR 1870–1871 Resumption of music study in Milan · Outbreak of the Franco-German War · My double existence in the world of books · Return of the victorious troops to Berlin

Prince Achille Murat was an officer in the French army; in this capacity he received orders to take up garrison duty at Algiers. Of course his wife went with him, and consequently Paris once more became empty for me. My heart also was empty, and the plans for the future had gone to wrack and ruin. Our small property had dwindled sadly with all these costly lessons and the other expenses of a luxurious existence ... and so it came about that I turned my attention to singing again. We journeyed to Milan for the purpose of studying opera parts under Maestro Lamperti and, if possible, to make my _début_ at the Scala. Lamperti gave me an examination—found my voice marvelously beautiful—but I should have to study with him for at least a year before I could venture to think of appearing in concert or opera. Very good—on then with the do, re, mi, fa, sol, la, si....

I studied and practiced diligently, but the “one important thing,” the world-filling thing so to speak, which at the beginning of my apprenticeship I found in hoped-for mastery of my art, had vanished from me.

And now the Franco-German War broke out. I received word from Salomé Murat that she had given birth to a son in Algiers, and that he was born on the first of July, the very day when war was declared. I had not seen the tempest coming, and when it broke it aroused as little interest in me as did the storm of 1866. I was occupied with far more serious troubles: I could not make a success of my artistic career. Whenever I sang at a test, nervousness closed my throat and I made a failure. The “Singsang” was becoming a torment. But I struggled on, for the others kept assuring me that this nervousness could be conquered, and that then my talent would come out victorious. Under the stress of this I paid little heed to the mighty tragedy which was at that time convulsing the world. Other woes than mine were there suffered; my contemporaries there were trembling with other anxieties! Once more did I let this elemental event pass over the horizon without any inward revolt. The repeated victories won by Germany filled me with great respect, while at the same time the fall of the Napoleonic dynasty, with which I had come into such close contact, aroused my sincere sympathy; on the other hand, I was glad for my delightful royal vis-à-vis that he was to wear the proud imperial crown.

About all the distress and the horrors which followed in the wake of the Franco-German War I heard little—or would not hear anything; I put it aside with my habitual fatalistic _C’est la guerre_. Politics did not interest me in the least; I did not read the newspapers. This gave me all the more time for books. Books carried me into another world in which, along with my own individual life, I led a second life. In my early childhood I had been seized by the passion for reading and learning; through my intercourse with Elvira, poetess and daughter of a savant, it was still more fanned into flame, and never, under any circumstances, has it left me. Whether at home in Baden or off traveling; whether studying at the opera school or moving in high life amid joys and festivities; whether in love and engaged and disengaged again; whether my existence was offering me splendor and pleasures or care and worriments,—I always spent many hours every day in the company of books.

At the time of which I am now speaking, what I had read would have filled a stately library. All of Shakespeare, all of Goethe, all of Schiller and Lessing, all of Victor Hugo. The last-named,—a world in himself,—who had already made such a mighty impression upon me as a child with his _Ruy Blas_, I felt called upon to know in all his works; and I was intoxicated with his command of language, with the sunward flight of his genius. Anastasius Grün, Hamerling, Grillparzer, Byron, Shelley, Alfred de Musset, Tennyson, among poets; and of the novelists I knew all of Dickens, all of Bulwer,—better say at once, all of the Tauchnitz collection. In French the novels of George Sand, Balzac, Dumas; the dramatic works of Corneille, Racine, Molière, Dumas _fils_, Augier, Sardou.

Yet scientific writings interested me as much as elegant literature, perhaps even more. I read works on ethnography, chemistry, astronomy; but my favorite branch was philosophy. Kant, Schopenhauer, Hartmann (“The Philosophy of the Unconscious”), Strauss, Feuerbach, Pascal, Comte, Littré, Victor Cousin, Jules Janet, Alfred Fouillée,—the three last named in the _Revue des deux mondes_, which I regularly read from the first page to the last,—these and many others, all of whose names I cannot here enumerate, were my intellectual comrades, in whose company I led a happy double existence quite apart from my personal doings, and in this my soul expanded most comfortably.

The period of iconoclasm had not then arrived, with immense zeal to throw discredit on the works of the earlier poets, and one could rejoice with undiminished pride in the lofty circle. In science, on the other hand, the really noblest of all—I mean natural science—had not as yet attained to the height, the influence, and the revolutionary effect on intellects which it has since won through the theory of evolution. Its application to spiritual and social phenomena was still unknown to me. I knew nothing then of social philosophy and sociology. To be sure, Darwin had already published his “Origin of Species”; the economic problems had already been propounded in the works of Lassalle and Engels; Buckle had already brought out his “Introduction to the History of Civilization”; the battle over Büchner’s “Force and Matter” was already on; Herbert Spencer’s principal works were already issued; yet thus far nothing of all this had reached me. I received with avidity whatever books told me of nature and human society as things existent, but I did not conceive them as things nascent; and, above all, I lacked the idea that social conditions are destined to become _different_ and that man with his eyes open can militantly coöperate toward this evolution.

When the Franco-German War was ended we chanced to be sojourning in Berlin. My studies had brought me to the Prussian capital, for the reason that I desired to make some experiment also in the German method of singing. From an Unter den Linden balcony I saw the entrance of the victorious troops returning from France. The picture remains in my memory full of sunshine, enthusiasm, fluttering banners, scattered flowers, triumphal arches,—a lofty, historic festival of joy. How different would my impression of it be at the present time—but the history of this change will come much later.

XIV PRINCE WITTGENSTEIN Duet practice and betrothal · Art journey and—end · Letters from Castle Wittgenstein

Now follows another episode from the days of my youth,—again an engagement romance. When I say “days of my youth,” that is relative; for the romance ran its course during the summer of 1872, when I was already twenty-nine years old, and this age is not called “young” in a girl.

It was in Wiesbaden. A young man—Adolf, Prince Sayn-Wittgenstein-Hohenstein was his name—sought our acquaintance. It appeared that he was favored by nature with a phenomenal tenor voice and was passionately devoted to singing. This naturally formed a basis of acquaintance, and later of attraction. He had once heard me as I was singing by an open window, and this had induced him to make my acquaintance. We asked him to call and bring his music. He willingly acceded to this request. I was astonished that the pieces which he brought were not only songs, but also and for the most part opera airs, and he was no less astonished to find that I too had a supply of scores. The first thing that he sang for us was the aria from _Faust_,—“O dimora casta e pura.” I accompanied him on the piano. When he had finished the aria—he had sung it wonderfully—I opened my score of _Faust_ and began to sing the soprano part of the duet; he immediately joined in, and we sang the duet through like two regular opera artists.

“Have you been preparing for the stage, Countess?” he asked in amazement.

“I might ask you the same question, Prince.”

The question remained this first time unanswered. We had each found such pleasure in this assured and accurate part-singing that we arranged to have music together assiduously. He now came to our house every day, and the duet from _Faust_ was followed by the duet from _Roméo et Juliette_ and then by the duet between Raoul and Valentine.

Soon the young man confided to us that he had indeed the intention of devoting himself to the art. Within a month he proposed to start for America, and there, under an assumed name, to appear in concerts or perhaps on the stage. It had been a difficult matter to extort permission from his parents, but his passion for singing was so overmastering that he would have been willing to renounce everything in order to make his beloved art his profession. He also had hopes of winning great pecuniary rewards. Being a younger brother of the heir of entail, he had no expectation of inheriting wealth, while in America first-class tenors always reaped an abundant harvest of dollars.

Thereupon I told him also what plans I had cherished, and that they had been wrecked merely on account of my insuperable nervousness, which crippled me whenever I was about to sing before a numerous company or at a decisive test. He had experienced the same thing, but had in the course of time succeeded in getting the better of it.

And so we understood each other perfectly. Our voices blended splendidly, and the end was—does not every one suspect what the end was? For a fortnight, for hours every day, to declare to each other in major and minor, in tender and passionate tones, _Io t’amo—Je t’adore—will sterben—gern ... für dich_—“will gladly die—for thee”—cannot be done with impunity, especially if the two are sympathetic. And so it came to pass that we agreed to unite our fortunes, which were so similar.

Prince Adolf Wittgenstein sued for my hand and his offer was assented to by my mother. My assent he had already obtained in the kiss with which one of the duets, dying in sweet thirds, had ended.

Our plans were thus formulated: The trip to America should be made—more than ever was the acquisition of a competency needful; he would immediately inform his parents of the betrothal; as his recognized fiancée I should remain in Europe, and if his venture succeeded then he would return and carry me back. A letter of approval speedily came from his parents, and so we became _Bräutigam und Braut_. In this relationship the singing of love duets grew twice as delightful. To be sure, the sadness of the quickly approaching separation was mingled with our happiness. Only a fortnight more and Adolf would be obliged to go to Bremen; his passage on the steamer was already taken, and the concert in which he was to make his début in New York was already announced. So have courage: a few months would soon pass, and next spring we could enter into the alliance of love. We exchanged rings and vows, and my betrothed set out for Bremen, where he was to sail, while we returned to Austria. We betook ourselves to Graz, where a sister of my mother’s had settled with her children. There we proposed to live in quiet retirement until Adolf’s return. Our Baden villa was sold—song and the infallible clairvoyant power had swallowed up almost everything. My mother had her inalienable widow’s portion left, and I enough to provide a suitable trousseau for my approaching marriage.

I looked to the future now not with quietude, to be sure, but still with joyful anticipation. Not with quietude—for what if Adolf failed in his plans, or what if he should change his mind while over there ... such things do happen! And with joyous anticipation—for it would be likely to be an interesting, happy life by the side of a fellow-artist, who bore a great name, too, and was a dear, poetic, good-hearted man, to whom I was, if not indeed passionately, yet cordially, attached!

From Bremen had come a farewell telegram full of love, and now several weeks must pass before I could get a letter from New York.

But news of him reached me sooner than I expected,—terrible news. I found in the paper an item only a few lines long, with the heading:

DIED ON THE PASSAGE

A cable dispatch received by the family of Fürst Wittgenstein, at Castle Wittgenstein, reports that Prince Adolf Wittgenstein, who was on his way to America, suddenly died on board and was buried at sea.

I uttered a shriek, and spent the whole night kneeling by my bed and sobbing.

The next morning, with the forlorn hope that possibly the tidings were false, I wrote to the family, and received from Adolf’s twin brother the following reply:

Schloss Wittgenstein, November 20, 1872

Liebe verehrte Gräfin Bertha,

How infinitely hard it is for me to send you these lines, for they are to tell you that the report which you read in the papers is true.

Alas, you cannot believe, dear Countess, what unspeakable grief we all, and I especially, feel at the tidings of the sudden death of our dear, good, generous-hearted brother. His heart has ceased to beat! Poor Adolf died, as we learn through the office of the Imperial Chancery, suddenly, on the 30th of October, in consequence of some physical injury apparently caused by terrible seasickness; his dear body was buried at sea. So runs the fatal telegram which reached Berlin from New York on the 6th of November and was transmitted to us on the following day. I cannot tell you, dear Countess, what we felt and suffered at this report; and even now I am not able to realize and believe the frightful fact. I do not know why the God of infinite goodness summons my dearest-beloved twin brother, now in the full bloom of his youth, just as he was on the point of attaining the goal of his desires! O God, how infinitely painful for us who are left bereaved! I know, dear Countess, what grief will fill your heart at these tidings. You too loved my good brother so dearly. Ah, if he had listened to me, he would have remained in Europe and gone to Italy, and later to London. I had all but brought it about. You may perhaps remember, in his letters, how inconsolably he wrote that people did not want him to be happy. One who has no firm faith, and does not assure himself that whatever God does is well done, could not but despair at this so unspeakably sad event. If we might only call our dear Adolf back, if only he could be with us again! The last token of life that my father received from him was from Southampton. On the 23d, I believe, the ship went on from there; on the 28th it reached New York, but without our dear brother—we have not even his beloved body; that thought, that it is in the depths of the sea, is terrible! Three days before the ship arrived, our dear brother departed. I cannot write any more to-day, forgive me, honored Countess. This very week we expect details from the captain and the ship’s surgeon; perhaps also a message of farewell from dear, good-hearted Adolf. My mother has just received your letter; she will certainly write you. I should have been glad to write you, but I did not know your address.

So good-by for to-day. Try to be submissive to the blow, as we try; and may God, who is all-powerful, who inflicts wounds and heals them, grant you strength to endure the grief for him who is lost.

I kiss your hands, dear and honored Countess, and, with cordial greetings to your mother, I remain, in sincere and faithful attachment,

Your mourning friend, Wilhelm Prinz Sayn-Wittgenstein

Then came the promised letter from the old princess:

My dear Countess,

Alas, if I could only tell you that the news which has shocked you, that our dearly beloved Adolf perished on his sea trip, was not true! No, my dear Countess, God called away the dear, beloved, angelic son. Why did he have to leave us? That question we keep asking, and for all answer can only say, that for three years and more it had been his most ardent wish to devote himself to art; that in numberless letters he has said again and again, “If you want to see me once more happy, contented, and well, as I was ten years ago, then grant my request and let me go to America.” The prince could never make up his mind to grant his wish; only after he was fully persuaded that he would be miserable here, did he at last yield and grant him the desired permission.

I feel that you, my dear Countess, will mourn for our dear son with us, and preserve an affectionate remembrance of him; for your letters to the dear departed have told me that you loved him from your heart. It would have been a great consolation to me if my beloved Adolf had been able to have you with him in his journey to that distant land—yet how terrible for you, if it had been so! Ah, I thank God for having made the last weeks of my dear child’s life happy through your friendship; he went away with such joyful anticipations—he believed that he should see his home and family again, and bring you to his home, dear Countess,—alas, it was not to be; we must lose him for this short hand-breadth of life which God still lets us live; but we shall find him again there, where is no more pain, no more disappointment, no more parting!

I shall always be glad to hear that you are happy, and I assure you of my sincere sympathy as

Your devoted Amalie Fürstin Sayn-Wittgenstein

Schloss Wittgenstein, November 22, 1872

A few weeks later Prince Wilhelm wrote me again:

Most honored Countess,

At last I am able to send you, as I promised, the particulars regarding Adolf’s last days. Pardon me for any delay in doing so; I have been obliged to make the transcripts for all the absent brothers and sisters, and I have recently had to assist my father in many other matters.

The princess was much rejoiced over your last letter of sympathy, and thanks you heartily for it. My late brother’s effects have not as yet come; things take a long time when transacted through the office of the Imperial Chancery. The steamer _Rhein_ was back from New York long ago, and on the 14th of the month sailed again for that port.

We have received the sincerest sympathy from near and far, from high and low, and only one voice has been heard regarding my dear brother: he was loved, honored, and respected by every one. Our good Adolf passed away, it seems, while asleep. He died in the night of the 29–30th of October, having been on deck in good spirits and full of jokes the day before. He did feel very weak during the last days, and had suffered severely from seasickness; but it did not manifest itself as in other people—he only suffered infinitely, and that brought about his sudden demise. He had no forewarning of it; on the very evening of the 29th he talked a great deal with his fellow-traveler M. de Neufville, and with the captain in his cabin. Neither the captain, nor the steward who waited on him and was on the watch that night, heard the slightest thing. On the morning of the 30th M. de Neufville thought he was still sleeping, and sat down on his bunk, never once dreaming that he was beside the dear dead. Let me break off from this sad theme. I am somewhat calmed and strengthened. I cannot thank God sufficiently for having been so kind to my dearest brother. I hope to meet him again in the life to come. I inclose a charming poem dedicated to my brother Adolf’s departed spirit, composed by some one in Wiesbaden, who signs the name “Glücklich.” It will surely please you.

How is it with you, dear Countess, and with your mother? Do you intend to stay in Graz all winter? I may possibly visit my youngest brother, Hermann, in Berlin for a few weeks, or, if it should be too cold here, go to Wiesbaden where our Crown Prince and his wife are staying. As soon as my departed brother’s effects arrive I will send you some of his song books as a memento. Perhaps you might suggest one or another that you especially care for.

Of course we are spending the holiday season very quietly. I will now close, so that the letter may get off to-day, and that you may at length receive the long-desired details with whatever power they have to set the mind at ease. Remember me most cordially to the Countess your mother, and keep me in your friendship.

With hearty greetings, liebe, verehrteste Komtesse, Your most respectful and devoted Wilhelm Prinz Sayn-Wittgenstein

Schloss Wittgenstein, December 19, 1872

From Adolf’s fellow-traveler, M. de Neufville, mentioned repeatedly in the above letter, I received a long memorandum about the voyage and the sad ending; whereupon I wrote him, and received the following reply:

P. O. Box 2744, New York, March 12, 1873

Hochverehrte Gräfin,

Your friendly and confiding letter of February the sixth reached me a few days ago, and I should have replied sooner if time had permitted. All the more I have thought about you, highly honored Countess; for it is so easy for me to enter into your feelings of grief,—and permit me, while expressing my best and sincerest thanks for your confidence, to use this phrase, _La douleur fait facilement fraternité_.

I have known only too well what it means when one must suddenly give back to the Lord the loved ones whom one has cherished here below and from whom one has expected so many pure delights. Yet it is infinitely encouraging to know that they are only being kept safe for us, and that they are in a place where there are no disappointments and no partings. How thankful we must be that we have this assurance within us at a time when unbelief is gaining ground so frightfully and is sweeping along one wavering soul after another.

I am very sorry that I can only partially answer your various questions, because many a dear and true word spoken in regard to you by the late prince has escaped my memory during the four months and a half that have elapsed, though not without leaving forever in my heart an exalted impression of your personality. He told me on the very first Saturday evening—we were scarcely an hour out of Bremen—about your musical talent and your great love for art, and on the very next day we were given a chance to admire his splendid tenor voice: he sang the _Tannenwald_, and a song the title of which I do not know; I think it began with _J’aime toujours_. He sang this song several times; he persuaded me to play the Abt songs on the ’cello, and could never hear them enough; likewise Mendelssohn’s _So ihr mich vom ganzen Herzen suchet_ (“If with all your hearts ye truly seek me”) he sang with piano and ’cello accompaniment. On the 29th of October, at noon, we talked together confidentially for the last time. He was in his berth and I sat near him; he spoke of our living together in New York, of my taking part in his concerts, and suddenly he turned the conversation to his betrothed (he had your picture in his hand when I went into his cabin). He told me of your delightful association in Wiesbaden, and then he added, in a troubled tone, “I think, so many times, How will it be when I get back again—will she love me then just as dearly as she did before my departure?”

Fortunately I was able to free our dear, never-to-be-forgotten prince from these disturbing thoughts by giving him to read a poem which had been sent to me at Bremen by a beloved hand. It is Spitta’s (?) _Was macht ihr, dass ihr weinet und brechet mir mein Herz?_ [“What mean ye, to weep and to break mine heart?” Acts xxi, 13]. It is so beautifully carried out,—how we all are united in the love which comes from God. We talked about that poem, and then I thought it was better to let the prince rest, and I went away.

Alas! this was the last hour when we could talk alone and confidentially. May a faithful memory be the bridge that unites this hour with the joyful meeting again.

I hope that on another occasion I may have more time to write to you; to-day I had to use for that purpose a few moments in the office.

Thanking you again from the bottom of my heart for your trust in me, I remain with perfect respect and reverence

Your devoted Ch. de Neufville

And that was the end of a painful and yet beautiful episode of my life,—a short romance of the magic of song, and of melancholy resignation. On board the _Rhein_ a mourning flag was raised, a choral was sung, the ship’s engines were stopped, and a body was lowered into the ocean with salvos of guns. On the silent heart of the man who there disappeared in the waters—an artist, a prince, a good-hearted man—was laid the photograph of his betrothed, and the billows of the ocean murmured a sobbing wedding song to the dead and my picture.