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