XXII
AT HOME
Departure from the Caucasus · First destination, Görz · Return to Harmannsdorf · Family life and neighborly visits · Literary correspondence · Writers’ convention in Berlin
In May, 1885, nine years after our elopement, we returned home. Not without a pang did we say farewell to the Caucasus; we had grown very fond of the beautiful country, and our friends there also found it hard to let us go. But the delight, after such a long separation, of coming back “to our house” as a happy couple, who had proved their right to such happiness and had fought their way to a self-supporting profession,—this delight outweighed all the grief of leave-taking, and just as jubilantly as we had originally set sail from Odessa to carry our love and our passion for adventure to the legendary land of Colchis, so jubilantly did we set sail from Batum to cross the Black Sea once more: homeward—homeward!
Our first destination in Europe was Görz, the place where lay my mother’s grave. There we desired to kneel before we returned to the Suttners’ paternal house. Therefore we went directly through Vienna without pausing, and it was only when that visit of pious sorrow had been paid that we turned our faces back to the north again. Then we spent one day in Vienna with Brother Karl, whose reception of us gave a foretaste of the welcome that was awaiting us. We appointed the next day for our arrival at Harmannsdorf. Artur begged that no one should come to meet us at the station, so that he might find all his dear ones at once in the Harmannsdorf that he so loved.
So, then, at the station of Eggenburg only the family carriage was waiting for us. From Eggenburg to our destination is another three miles. Ah, that splendid drive! It was a sunny, fragrant May day; the song of larks in the air, red clover in the meadows, radiant joy in our hearts. The landscape in the distant mountain land, where, according to the myth, the earthly paradise was situated, was unquestionably grander and finer than this flat Lower-Austrian region—but this was home. A hundred sweet recollections arose in my mind, and doubtless a thousand in his; it was the abode of his youth and childhood. When we reached the place on the road where the tower of the castle becomes visible, he stretched out his left arm toward the horizon with a cry of joy, and with his right pressed me to him.
“Willkommen zu Hause, mein Weib!” he said in a tone of deep emotion. It was the only time in his life that he called me “wife”; perhaps this is why that moment, with all its blessed solemnity, has remained so clearly impressed upon my mind.
And now the arrival,—the entrance through the gate, the pause before the castle drawbridge, where the whole family was assembled,—well, we know from the Bible how it is usual to celebrate the return of the prodigal son.
The best rooms in the castle had been made ready for us, and thus I was “at home” under the roof of Harmannsdorf—a roof that was to protect our happiness for seventeen years longer.
Now began for us a new life, a family life. Harmannsdorf was occupied by the parents and the three daughters; the eldest also, married to a Count Sizzo at Trent, was with us making a visit. The oldest son, Karl, secretary in the Department of Commerce, came every Saturday, and always spent his vacation at Harmannsdorf with his beautiful wife and his twelve-year-old daughter Mizzi, who was a pupil at the Sacré Cœur Convent. As such she was very piously inclined, and made the most strenuous endeavors to convert her Uncle Artur, for whom she had conceived an ardent affection and whose ecclesiastical lukewarmness caused her great anxiety as to the salvation of his soul. The second oldest brother, Richard, lived with his family at the castle of Stockern, a mile and a half distant, and of course the intercourse between Stockern and Harmannsdorf was very lively. Of other neighbors, whom we constantly saw, those we liked best were the owners of Mühlbach, Baron and Baroness Josef Gudenus, and the castellan of Maissau, the grand master of the huntsmen, Count Traun. From Vienna often came Artur’s former schoolmates; in short, the domestic and social life left nothing to be desired in agreeableness and liveliness of intercourse. And yet we managed to save out many hours for laborious solitude. For we kept up our scientific studies, were always reading the same books together, and also writing together; not that we collaborated in authorship,—each worked independently, and we each read the other’s writings only after they had been printed,—but we wrote at the same worktable.
Even while we were in the Caucasus we had entered into correspondence with many of our contemporary authors. This correspondence was now carried on even more assiduously. My Inventarium had brought me many unknown friends in literary circles.
Thus one day we were surprised by an enthusiastic letter from Friedrich Bodenstedt. As the poet of Mirza Schaffy had himself spent many years in the Caucasus, he took a keen interest in Artur Gundaccar’s Caucasian stories. M. G. Conrad of Munich, in whose newly founded monthly magazine, Die Gesellschaft, had appeared Es Löwos and other things, had also engaged us in correspondence. Hermann Heiberg, Robert Hamerling, Count von Schack, Ludwig Büchner, Konrad Ferdinand Meyer, Karl Emil Franzos,—those are some of the names of our correspondents; also Balduin Groller, who had long exchanged letters with B. Oulot in the Zugdidi days without suspecting that this nom de plume concealed a woman, as he himself tells the story in one of his delicious feuilletons.
I was fulfilling my duty as editor of a great literary periodical. That flood of generally mediocre manuscripts, all of which demanded to be read! Occasionally, as in a big, stupid cake, a raisin here and there—the rare products of genius. Once there was a special editorial feast-day; I had found a big raisin, a work of remarkable depth and delicacy and quite incomparable grace of construction. That was a delight, a genuine intoxication; a new talent—that is certainly nothing trifling, is it? Above all things, what is the man’s name? B. Oulot—a singular name, but the world will soon get used to it. But this was not the only singularity. I take into my hand again the letter which accompanied it. Where does the man live and what else does he do? A Russian postage-stamp; the letter is dated from Zugdidi, Government of Kutais.... And there is also a request for leniency, as the work is the writer’s first. That too! I see to it at once that the honorarium shall be sent immediately, so as to keep the new contributor in good humor, and I write a letter of unreserved appreciation of this first work, with an urgent request for further articles.
These also came, and my delight and astonishment kept on increasing. They betrayed a scientific and philosophical competence equal to that of any university professor, but at the same time a grace, and a humor that triumphed over everything—no, assuredly it was not a university professor.
We got to talking together, of course through letters. We could not get to the end of all that we had to say to each other. In this exchange of ideas we discovered that we had in common so many opinions about art and life that it would have been sheer nonsense to keep bothering with society flourishes, and we began to use the “thou” like two good comrades. It was brother heart on this side, brother heart on that; but on one occasion I must have expressed myself so vigorously and so unequivocally—between comrades one is not so particular about little things—regarding some question which would have come within the purview of the as yet unpromulgated Lex Heinze, that a protest might seem proper. It followed in a very delicate, perfectly unobtrusive manner. The next letter ended with Deine ergebene—the feminine form.
I was dumfounded. So B. Oulot is a woman—who would have thought that of the man! I demanded an explanation and received one. B. Oulot was—Baroness Bertha von Suttner, born Countess Kinsky.—Well, all right then. I did not feel offended at it after that, and anyhow there was no changing it now.
This was just at the time of “the revolution in literature,” and we followed with the liveliest sympathy the phases of that revolution. Conrad, Bleibtreu, Alberti—we read all that they wrote and were amazed at their audacities. A Moderne was beginning to show its head—which, to be sure, has since been thrown on the rubbish heap by the very most modern Modernen. And in the plastic arts too the first symptoms of the Secession began to be distinguishable. Everywhere there was fermentation.—After all, there is at every period a newest thing which surprises and puzzles, is antagonized, wins, and soon becomes vieux jeu. That the present phase seems to one to be so unprecedentedly subversive of all that has been supreme, is mere illusion.
In October of this year, the first year of our return, the Congress of the Authors’ Union held its session in Berlin. In our capacity as members of the Union we were invited to be present, and we needed no second invitation.
I preserved in my diary a few pictures of this congress—the first which I had ever attended in my life—and later turned them to account in my Schriftstellerroman.
On the evening before the first business meeting, a “gathering and informal greeting of the members of the Union” took place in the Kaiserhalle.
At the entrance of the assembly hall, from which comes the loud buzz of hundreds of voices speaking at once, stands the host, that is to say, the President of the Congress, to receive the guests. That is Hermann Heiberg,—tall, fair, elegant, with nobly formed features.
The hall is packed; only with difficulty can one make one’s way from place to place. A large number of those present have already taken their seats at two or three long tables which run from one end of the hall to the other. With difficulty are places secured for us.
Hermann Heiberg introduces various colleagues to us, and these fetch still others. As often as a name celebrated in literature is mentioned, I am stirred by the same kind of joy that one feels when at a raffle a winning number is called. There is only one thing that is often bitterly disappointing,—sometimes the actuality so utterly fails to correspond to the mental picture that one has formed of the author in question. To be sure this picture was quite misty, indefinite, lineless as it were, and yet one regrets its annihilation. What, were these fragrant love-songs, these rapturous fancies, written by the brutal-looking stout man? And can it be that this awkward little bourgeois manikin is the author of those exquisitely elegant pictures of high life? What! Did that downy-bearded youth yonder who looks like a grocery clerk write those essays dripping with wisdom and experience?
Various figures and faces attract my attention, and I ask who they are. An imposing female apparition in black toilet with transparent sleeves—an interesting face: Frau Ida Boy-Ed, the author of Männer der Zeit. A small man with long white hair and benevolently beaming eyes in a beardless face; that is Paulus Cassel, an apostle of self-sacrificing philanthropy. There, leaning against a column,—a sharp contrast to the Apostle Paulus,—a dark Mephistophelian phenomenon: it is Fritz Mauthner the satirist. Near him is a pretty, animated young woman—it is the American Sara Hutzler, whose specialty is original child-scenes; the one who afterward married the dramatist Kainz, but died within a short time.
There at last—we recognize him by his picture—is Mirza Schaffy, our dear correspondent-friend Bodenstedt. He hastens to us and sits down with us. Then follow new reminiscences of the Caucasus; it was there that the poet spent the most joyous years of his youthful activity. And he tells of Tiflis, of the forests of Mingrelia, of the roofs of the Oriental houses on which in the moonlight beautiful women play the lute and dance, and to which in the silence of the night a young German poet is summoned for a tryst; of the Platonic passion which the beautiful wife of a Russian general inspired in the same youth, and which even to-day gleams as the most magical recollection in the poems of the gray-haired man.
Not only on that evening but during the whole session of the Authors’ Congress, Friedrich Bodenstedt was our constant companion; we could not weary of telling one another of the Caucasus.
On the next day the business meetings began. It was the first session of a Union that I had ever attended. The whole affair—the green table standing on the lofty podium, the members of the directorate sitting around it, each with a pile of paper in front of him, the president in the midst—made a solemn impression on me. It aroused in my mind the comprehension of a thing which is destined to assume ever deeper and more widely inclusive dimensions in the humanity of the future; that is to say, the consciousness of solidarity. This is a consciousness which works even more efficaciously than the command “Love your neighbor as yourself”; for in the right kind of solidarity your neighbor is identical with yourself to begin with. That the interests of all are at the same time the interests of each, and vice versa, gives to each individual such a heightened feeling of existence as if he were the whole: he can no longer separate his ego from the collectivity, since this is—as the word Union signifies—one, and therefore inseparable. Of course that is only the ideal conception of a Union; in practice the thing often lacks its own life principle, unity.
This is not the place to tell of the matters dealt with and the course that the business took, although I find these stated in my notebook. Let me only sketch two or three more features of the convention.
At the Rathaus, greetings by the Bürgermeister, and addresses following. An address by Max Nordau was on the programme, but unfortunately this fell through. The Lord Mayor of Berlin, in gala attire, welcomed the guests and said all the flattering things that can be said to “the laborers of the mind,” “the bearers of civilization,” those who embody “the progress of the idea of our time” and constitute “the pride of the nation.” After the perfunctory speech of thanks for the “honor of such a reception” in “the Metropolis of the Intellect,” and the like, begin the promised addresses,—addresses in connection with which the New York Staats-Zeitung later made the remark that “the association of literary Freelunchers, instead of discussing arrangements for furthering the interests of their profession, talked about the relation of Old Fritz to German literature and about the Goethe House.”
On the sixth and last day, banquet and ball in the hall of the “Harmonie.” Again Hermann Heiberg stands at the entrance and welcomes his colleagues and numerous guests from Berlin society. The great hall, made as light as day, is speedily filled; the guests take their places at table, and when the roast comes in the toasts and speeches begin. The first speaker is Karl Emil Franzos, who in the name of the Danube states says all sorts of friendly things to the capital of the German Empire. Then Julius Wolff. The speakers mount a tribune so that they may be better heard. Among them there are women. It is incomprehensible to me ... how can one have the courage to talk so in public? A young Russian woman with a foreign accent praises ger’manische poetry. An elderly authoress also ascends the tribune. Her voice is so weak that only those quite close to her can hear what she says; although conversation is resumed throughout the hall, she goes on haranguing indefatigably in a plea—as we afterwards come to learn—for putting up a memorial tablet on the house of Gutzkow. With all zeal—especially with sweeping movements of her arms, the only part of the address that the audience can make out—she explains the imperative necessity for this memorial tablet, until some one at the foot of the tribune cries out, “It was put up long ago.”
Now Oskar Justinus recites a poetical toast to the women that write, and points out that even in the most ancient times there were bluestockings, for it is well known that Leda was not averse to taking a quill in her hand.
The last address is delivered by Hermann Heiberg, in bringing the banquet to an end. Raising his glass, he says: “May that be fulfilled which each one wishes in the bottom of his heart, be it right or be it—according to the world’s ideas—wrong.... The world’s ideas are often false, and what is warmly wished has a right to be granted.—So I drink to the fulfillment of our warmest wishes!”
“A strange toast,” remarked some one at the end of our table; “Heiberg seems to be talking in a fever.”
“That would be nothing to wonder at,” said my husband; “the ungrateful task of taking charge of a festival brings with it so much annoyance and worry that—as he himself told me a little while ago—it is only with quinine that he keeps himself up.... And then he is one who understands everything, forgives everything, and would be willing that everybody should have a bit of happiness, whether what they wish is right or—in the opinion of the world—wrong. I am one who have had fulfilled a warm wish which other people condemned—and it was my happiness.”
“And mine, too,” I added under my breath.