The next picture: The happy suitor, in possession of my acceptance, brings me a whole cargo of betrothal presents: a set of sapphires and a pearl necklace. He also presents to me his nearly sixteen-year-old daughter (for he was a widower), and she calls me her dear, beautiful mamma, which is great fun for me.
Next picture: A brilliant ball in the haute finance, in which we participate as affianced lovers. Now I am surrounded, and the most gorgeous young cavalry officers are paying court to me—one in particular begs permission to call at my house when I am married. Evidently he thinks an old man’s young wife may become interesting. But my fiancé is furious, and makes a scene with me because I propose to go out to supper on the uhlan’s arm. I laugh, leave my cavalier, and take the arm of the angry man.
“Oh, I’ll be good,” I say soothingly.
Still another picture: A drive about the city, three of us, my mother and the engaged couple, to look at house-furnishing goods, carriages, gowns; also a drive to the suburbs to look at the truly princely villa that was destined as a nuptial gift for me.
One picture more: An afternoon at our home. My betrothed and I are alone for the first time.
“Bertha, do you know how ravishing you are?” He puts his arm around me and presses his lips to mine. The first love-kiss that a man had given me. An old man, an unloved man.—
With a suppressed cry of disgust I tear myself free, and in me arises a passionate protest—No, never—
On the next day the presents were sent back; I broke the engagement. My people had indeed tried to remonstrate: the scandal—the breach of faith—I ought not to have said yes, I had not been compelled to, but to draw back suddenly now—I should at least think it over for a while yet—
“No, no—I cannot, cannot—I’d rather die!”
And so the letter of dismissal was sent off.