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:
My dear Contessina,
It is now a fortnight since I came here. I am occupying a charming villa situated on the gulf and giving a view of the whole place, as well as of Livadia, the palais of the Empress, on the mountain opposite me. Last Sunday, after mass, I was invited to breakfast at their Majesties’, and there met the Grand Duke and Grand Duchess Mikhaïl,—he is governor of Caucasia,—the Queen of Greece, and others. I have discovered that the Grand Duchess Maria Alexandrovna, the Emperor’s only daughter, has grown considerably and is prettier than when I saw her last. Her fiancé, Prince Alfred, is expected here next week. Niko and André are in Mingrelia, where they are anxiously expecting me. Salomé is coming to Yalta on the 24th; she will spend some time with the Princess Orbeliani,[18] my cousin’s widow, who has a little estate near by, and will then join us in Mingrelia. I leave Yalta on the 3d of October and reach Poti four days later. Adieu, dearest Contessina; I wish you as much happiness and good fortune as you deserve.
Your very devoted
Ekaterina
In the spring of 1874 the princess with great delight informed me that her son was betrothed to the daughter of Count Adlerberg, a lifelong friend of the Tsar’s.
One of the next letters brought the description of the wedding, and in one that came still later the arrival of the young couple at Gordi, the summer residence of the Mingrelian family, was depicted. I insert the description here, for it gives a vivid picture of the country in which later I was destined to spend so many years with my husband.
The journey of the newly married couple went off in excellent shape. A special ship was put at their service to bring them directly across from Odessa to Poti, and from there a special train brought them to Kutais. The whole trip was one endless ovation. The inhabitants lined the way, and at all the stations they were received by the princes, nobles, and residents of the district with songs, shouts of joy, and salvos of musketry. They were compelled to stop and repair to floral temples where refreshments were ready, and there again began songs, dances, and other diversions.
At Kutais the travelers remained two days, where the banquets, balls, and receptions threatened to last forever, so that the young couple had to steal quietly away in order at length to reach Gordi.
At the entrance of the mountain pass is a bridge which leads over a rushing stream. There the carriages are left, since the heights can be reached only on horseback or in palanquins.
So, as soon as the equipages were emptied, they all crossed the carpeted bridge, which was roofed with a continuous arbor of flowers and adorned with a triumphal arch marking the boundary of Mingrelia.[19] Thereupon they took their way to a tastefully decorated pavilion, where the young couple were received by a delegation of my son’s officials and servants, as well as by all the princes and nobles of the region. After the health of the newly wedded couple had been toasted, all those who had been on horseback mounted so as to make a cordon around Mary’s palanquin, and the imposing procession started out along the road which leads up the mountain for seven kilometers.
At the first cannon shot which announced their arrival I went with my suite to the balcony of their dwelling, where I first received the cavalcade of the prince from the Letchgum, who, under the leadership of Prince Gregor, Niko’s uncle, were riding ahead of the newcomers; then I caught sight of the young couple, who, amid the ringing of all the bells, the music of a march played by the military band, and the roar of cannon echoing from the mountains, approached and received from the steward at the head of his people the bread and salt in accordance with the custom of the country.
Then they hastened up to me and knelt before me, to receive my blessing, with the holy picture, on the threshold of their new dwelling. This moment was so affecting and so solemn that the tumult of the billowing throng suddenly changed to the deepest silence. Tears stood in the eyes of all; Mary showed herself especially moved, so that I had to conduct her into the house to give her time to recover.
At last we proceeded to the church, where the Te Deum was celebrated, and the archimandrite, together with my almoner, delivered appropriate addresses. After the religious solemnities were finished I conducted my daughter-in-law into the great hall and there presented her with my gift, a parure of diamonds. As regards the dwelling that I have prepared for them, I can truly call it a jewel casket.
We rested for a while; then the festivities began, and lasted till late at night. Orchestral performances, national songs and dances, firing of guns, games, athletic sports, alternated. The number of guests came to three hundred, of whom a part ate under the great trees in the park. On the next day it began again, for we celebrated Mary’s birthday; and for this occasion I had prepared an evening surprise—fireworks, and an illumination of the mountains with Bengal lights, which furnished a magical spectacle.
Whenever I received such a letter I read it aloud to the Suttner family, and it was taken as a settled thing that as soon as the castle was completed I was to go to the Caucasus. This work was continually delayed, but we were perfectly satisfied that it was. Life, alternating between Harmannsdorf and Vienna, was so happy! Harmannsdorf, especially, offered us a whole succession of delights. During the hunting season came a throng of guests, and there were dancing and theatricals. In the park was a large hall with stage and dressing rooms. There we performed various dramas and comedies, which were witnessed not only by the Harmannsdorf public and the inhabitants of the neighboring castles, but also by the peasants of the surrounding villages, who came flocking in and filled the theater. Then the harvest and vintage festivals, the excursions to the neighboring Stockern, where also a jolly throng of young people sojourned, and above all the favorite donkey-wagon parties and the stolen moments of confidential tête-à-têtes. The only dissonances that made their appearance in the house sprang from unfortunate business transactions. On the estate of Zogelsdorf, which belonged to Harmannsdorf, were quarries which were operated actively but unprofitably. The new Vienna museums were built from the Zogelsdorf stone, and the statues of Hercules that adorn the Burgtor were chiseled from it; yet a dishonest overseer was the cause of this business resulting in serious losses instead of profit, But the burden of this anxiety rested more on the parents; the children heard little about it and did not take it to heart. The brilliancy of our outward life was not diminished, and our gay and joyous activities went on as usual. Artur Gundaccar and I had sad moments only when we could not succeed in banishing the thought of our approaching separation....
“Oh, no more of that,” one or the other of us would say after such an outburst of grief; “nothing endures forever; let us thank fate for granting us this bit of heaven.”
I confided this love story to my mother, who had remained at Graz with her sister. Of course, she urged me either to insist on a marriage or to leave the house; but I quieted her.
At last, however, his mother too began to have her suspicions. With icy coldness but with all delicacy she gave me to understand this. And I had always known that on that side sanction for marriage was not to be expected. I had not thought of it myself either. I saw the unreasonableness of such a match. Absolutely penniless, seven years older ... and he still without employment, also without means, but qualified and assured to make a brilliant marriage—all the girls were crazy about him—should I stand in the way of his future? That had never been my plan—there must one day be a parting, and now that the secret was half disclosed the moment had come for me to tear myself away. I mustered up all my courage and said to the baroness: “I am going to leave the house. I cannot go to Mingrelia yet, the castle will not be finished for another year. Could you not give me a recommendation to London? I should like to find a position there in the meantime—far from Vienna.”
“That is right, my dear child,” she exclaimed warmly, “I understand you.... See, in to-day’s paper I have found an advertisement for something which would perhaps suit you; would you like to answer it?”
The advertisement read: “A very wealthy, cultured, elderly gentleman, living in Paris, desires to find a lady also of mature years, familiar with languages, as secretary and manager of his household.”
So I wrote offering my services, and received a reply signed with the then to me unknown name Alfred Nobel.
I showed the letter to the baroness; she made inquiries and learned that the person in question was the famous and universally respected inventor of dynamite. Mr. Nobel and I exchanged several letters. He wrote cleverly and wittily, but in a melancholy tone. The man seemed to feel unhappy, to be a misanthrope, with the widest culture, with deeply philosophical views. He, a Swede, whose second mother tongue was Russian, wrote in German, French, and English with equal correctness and elegance. My letters too, for whatever reason, seemed to have a very stimulating effect on him. After a brief delay an agreement was reached: I was to take the position. The day of my departure for Paris was set. Now for saying farewell, separating from what is dearest ... Scheiden tut weh: the truth of that popular proverb I experienced.
I can still call up from the past those hours of parting. It was on the evening before I was to leave. I had been for several days at the house of an acquaintance in Vienna, to make my preparations. The last day Artur also came in from Harmannsdorf to be with me for the last time. My hostess left us alone—she knew that we still had much to say to each other. But it was hard to talk. We clung in a close embrace and wept. “To part!” Is it possible? Have we the strength for it? It must be—what could we do if I remained? Ah, it would have been too beautiful ... it could not be.... And again two salt-tasting kisses, again sobs and new laments, new grief-trembling words of endearment. Before he went he knelt before me and humbly kissed the hem of my gown:
“Matchless, royally generous-hearted woman—I thank thee, thank thee from the bottom of my heart! Through thy love thou hast taught me to know a happiness which shall consecrate all my life. Farewell!”