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: