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.”