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.

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:

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,

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.

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.

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:

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,