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,
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.