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.
PART THREE
1873–1876
XV
IN THE SUTTNER HOUSE
Resolve to take a position · The Suttner family · Artur Gundaccar von
Suttner · Life in the Vienna _palais_ and in Schloss Harmannsdorf · The
Exposition year · Secret love · Letters from the Princess of Mingrelia ·
Marriage of Prince Niko · Zogelsdorf quarry · Three happy years · I tear
myself away · Departure
Summer, 1873. The brief romance was not forgotten, but the sharp pain of
it was assuaged. The love borne “on the pinions of song” had not made
too deep an impression on my heart; the whole affair had passed swiftly
by and vanished like a dream. I spent a few weeks in deep, genuine
grief; then the tears began gradually to dry up, and life again made its
rights prevail—and all the more powerfully as the necessity was upon me
to earn my own livelihood. Our property was quite used up; I was obliged
to leave home. My mother could live on her widow’s portion, but I did
not want to be a burden upon her, although she entreated me to stay with
her and once more attempt to take up my artistic career. Of that I would
hear positively nothing more. Thirty years old—that is no time to begin
an artistic career; and the remembrance of the pangs that I had suffered
through nervousness, the various fiascoes connected with my tests, made
the mere thought of “Singsang,” as I called it, detestable. Neither was
I willing to remain inactive at home in narrow circumstances, and grow
sour. I wanted to see more of the world; I wanted to accomplish some
work. With my perfect command of French, English, and Italian, with my
superior artistry in music, unusual in one not a professional, with my
extensive acquirements in other branches of knowledge, I could make
myself useful and brilliant in the outside world.
So I took a position that was offered to me as instructor and companion
to four grown-up daughters in the baronial house of Suttner.
Here was I first to win the crown of my life. Blessed be the day that
brought me to that house; it was the bud from which the hundred-leaved
rose of my good fortune opened out. That day also opened the door
through which there could enter that Bertha Suttner whom, with her
experiences of the purest married bliss and the deepest woes of
widowhood, with her participation in the critical issues of the time, I
feel myself to be to-day, while that Bertha Kinsky of whom I have
hitherto been writing hovers before me like a figure in a picture book,
whose adventures—in vague outlines—are indeed known to me, but do not
affect me.
The Suttner family occupied their own _palais_ in Canova Street, Vienna.
One side looked out on the Karlskirche across the Vienna River, the
other on the Musikverein building. We—that is to say the baron, the
baroness, the four daughters, and I—occupied the first floor; in the
mezzanine lived the oldest son Karl, who had been married a few months
previously to a marvelously beautiful woman born Countess Firmian, and
the third and youngest son Artur Gundaccar. The second son, likewise
married, a former captain of cavalry, who had fought in Bohemia in 1866,
lived on the manor of Stockern.
“Papa” Suttner, at that time fifty-one years of age, a goodly man, an
Austrian cavalier of the old school, conservative—not to say
reactionary—in his political ideas, always welcome at court. “Mamma”
Suttner, about the same age, with traces of great beauty, somewhat
formal and cold in her bearing. The daughters, Lotti, Marianne, Luise,
and Mathilde, aged twenty, nineteen, seventeen, and fifteen, each
prettier than the other. Especially Mathilde, the mother’s favorite, had
a truly angelic look with her wavy blond hair, her dazzling complexion,
and her regular features. Two other living beings belonged to the
family,—Schnapfel, a yellow-haired _Pintscher_, a constant companion to
Papa and Mamma; and Amie, a wise white poodle with a laughing
physiognomy, the confidante of the girls.
It was a great establishment; the household servants were a valet, a
chasseur, serving men, a lady’s maid, housemaids, a cook, a scullery
maid, a coachman, and a porter. Carriages and opera box. The dwelling—I
still see it before me: antechamber with Gobelin tapestries on the
walls; a suite of three drawing-rooms, one green, one yellow, and one
blue; the mother’s bedchamber in lilac; the father’s office, which
served also for a smoking room, with leather-covered furniture and
wooden wainscoting. Then two other chambers for the girls,—Lotti and
Marianne slept together, and so did Luise and Mathilde; my room was next
to theirs.
The girls and I were soon the best of friends. I did not play my rôle as
instructor too strictly; a few hours in the morning were regularly spent
in the study of music and the languages, but the rest of the time was
nothing but enjoyment, joking, and jollity. I did not parade the dignity
of my thirty years, nor yet the authority of my position. We five were
playmates. Our days were fairly regular: in the morning, before
breakfast, a walk in the neighboring city park; at nine o’clock, coffee
together in Papa’s office (in connection with which Mamma made inquiries
about the progress of the lessons and laid down all sorts of rules of
behavior and other good advice); from ten till twelve, lessons; at noon,
_déjeuner à la fourchette_ all together in the dining-room; from one
o’clock on, music, school tasks, etc., alternating, until it was time to
dress for the five-o’clock dinner.
The occupants of the mezzanine floor, Karl with his wife and Artur, were
present at the dinner. Artur, then a young man of twenty-three, was the
special favorite of his sisters. Not only that, he was the favorite of
every one. I never knew any one, not one, who was not delighted with
Artur Gundaccar von Suttner. As rare as white blackbirds are those
creatures who radiate a _charme_ so irresistible that all, young and
old, high and low, are captivated by it; Artur Gundaccar was such a
person. I purposely do not translate the word _charme_ by “enchantment”
because the French word gives a hint at the derivative _charmeur_, an
expression which would be very inaptly rendered by “enchanter.” What
such a _charme_ consists in, is hard to say; it is not so much a complex
of characteristics as it is a characteristic in itself. It operates by
an inexplicable and irresistible magnetic and electric force. One thinks
it needful to explain why some persons are so attractive and pleasing
and inspire such confidence and affection in others, and ascribes this
to their cheerful disposition, their friendly spirit, their good looks,
or their talents; but that is all a mistake: others have the like
characteristics, perhaps even to a higher degree, but the same effect is
not produced, for they are no _charmeurs_. They are not sunshine-people.
Artur Gundaccar was. When he entered a room it immediately grew twice as
bright and warm as it was before. This does not mean that I fell in love
with him at first sight; I only shared the delight which the four
sisters felt when the favorite brother joined in their jests and
diversions, when he sat in our midst chatting, when he chanced to take
part in our entertainments and excursions. He could not do this any too
often, for he had to drudge in preparation for a civil-service
examination; this, to be sure, he did as little as possible, for he
learned very easily but not with avidity. Zeal for the study of law was
not one of his strong points. “A lazy dog” his former tutor, now his
private secretary, complainingly called him; his father dubbed him “a
frivolous good-for-nothing”; “He is a real affliction,” sighed his
mother; and at the same time they all worshiped him. He was handsome and
elegant beyond all comparison. He had an incredible gift for music;
without having studied, he played everything by ear and composed
ravishing melodies. And the basis of his character—is this perhaps the
secret of the sunshine effect?—the basis was kindness.
I have wandered from my account of the order of our day. After dinner
Mamma used to drive in the Prater with some of her daughters. Mathilde,
the youngest, was readiest for this; the others had no pleasure in this
slow promenade back and forth through the “Nobelallee.” However, the
rest of us too went down to the Prater to the Exposition. For the year
1873 was the year of the World’s Exposition; it was also the year of the
“crash.” In this crash Baron Suttner senior suffered serious losses, but
he kept it from the knowledge of his family. It was only discovered at a
later period.
The excursions and the visits to the Exposition gave us many enjoyments.
On Sundays we brought them into the forenoons, and then Artur Gundaccar
and some of his friends used to join us. In the evenings we went twice a
week to the opera, taking turns in using the box; almost every day
callers came to tea. Then we had music, played social games, and talked,
until eleven o’clock. This first summer, as the Exposition was open, the
family remained in town until the middle of July, when we went into the
country to Castle Harmannsdorf. Moving-day was a gala day to all of us,
for the girls liked ten thousand times better to be in the country than
in Vienna, and so did the sons. There is nothing more delicious than to
leave the hot, dusty city, and arrive at a beautiful castle where in
every room there is a scent of freshness; where you are surrounded by
park and forest; where you look forward to a long period of recreation
and enjoyment of nature.
Harmannsdorf possesses a beautiful old castle with a central and two
corner towers; a vast stone terrace gives into the park, of which the
foreground, laid out in the French style by Lejeune, the creator of
Schönbrunn, is richly adorned with vases and statues. You pass from it
to walks shaded by pine trees many centuries old, and into grounds laid
out in English style; of these, one quite wild in character is called
_Das Wäldchen_,—“the little forest.” But we liked the real forest still
better. There we used to go often afternoons, taking along a pony cart
drawn by donkeys and loaded with edibles and drinkables—we had
invariably the feeling of an excursion to the country, although we were
in the country already. And how happy, happy we were!
Artur Gundaccar was the soul of these festivities. And gradually and
blissfully it dawned upon us that we loved each other. The sisters gave
their laughing benediction. The parents knew nothing about it; there
could of course be no question of our being married, so they would have
put an end to the affair most speedily. Why destroy the innocent
happiness, why banish the “Midsummer Night’s Dream” mood? And so we
guarded our secret, and the sisters helped us to guard it. It was a
delightful time. Not without melancholy, because we knew that a life
union was impossible for us; but as yet we refused to think of the
separation—for the present we would be glad in the divine gift which was
ours because our hearts kept time in their beating, because their flames
streamed together into one. Guilelessly, unselfishly, unreservedly, with
utter trust, with tender devotion, we loved each other.
From the first I had announced that in three years I was going to leave
Europe and we should be obliged to part. This was the way of it. I had
kept up a lively correspondence with my Caucasian friends and told them
of the change in my worldly circumstances. The old Princess of
Mingrelia, who had now returned home, offered to take me into her
family, but not until she had finished building and furnishing a castle
in her home town of Zugdidi. The old castle, which the prince had
furnished in European style and with great magnificence, had been
destroyed by the Turkish bands when the Dedopali was compelled to take
flight, and now she had in mind to build a new one still finer.
I had seen the plans and had often been told the details of the
decoration. There was a hall in Persian style, another in the style of
Louis XIV; furniture and hangings and works of art the princess had
gradually acquired during her residence in Europe, and had dispatched
them to Zugdidi. Enormous packing cases were piled up there and were
waiting to be opened. Once I myself was charged with procuring something
for her: a big music box (I might go as high as fifteen thousand francs)
which should play orchestral pieces. I remember that I had Artur go with
me to make this purchase. A music box was wound up and played a waltz as
a test.
“Perhaps I shall dance to this waltz in Zugdidi,” I said.
“As if I would let you go!”
“It will have to be; I have made up my mind.”
“Let us not talk about it.”
I had also kept up a correspondence with Salomé. She lived in the
vicinity of Paris and was now the mother of a second little boy. The
Empress Eugénie was his godmother, and he was christened Napoleon.
Nikolaus of Mingrelia was aide to the Emperor of Russia and living in
St. Petersburg. Here is a letter which the princess wrote from a halting
place in her journey to her home land: