“No, never again!”
We sat down on the sofa, nestling close, and we began our story. What he had suffered, what I had suffered ... how he had already begun to think of suicide.... “No, no, we belong together, nothing shall ever part us again....”
But what now?—what was to be done?
“Leave planning till later,” I besought. I felt so completely satiated with bliss by this festal meeting that I could not attend to questions and doubts and the making of projects. Of all tender speeches such as are used by lovers and poets, “Thou art an angel,” “Thou art my all,” and the like, the loveliest and most significant is Du bist die Ruh!
But he awakened me from “Rest.”
“We must talk about the future,” he said. “One thing is clear,—it must never happen again that we let ourselves be parted, or that we actually separate of our own accord for wretched considerations of worldly wisdom. We will be married,—that is settled.”
Yes, that was settled. We had honestly tried to separate, and had seen that it was impossible, simply impossible. To have each other forever was unspeakable happiness; to renounce each other forever was synonymous with dying. With this choice set before us, there could be no further hesitation. To live, to live and be happy!
And so we did begin planning. We would be married—secretly—and then out into the world! We could surely make our way: we would work, put our talents to profitable use, find a situation.... To the Caucasus!—was my proposal. There I had powerful friends. The Dedopali had years and years before made me promise to come and make her a visit with my husband. Thither, then, should be our wedding journey. Through their relations with the emperor of Russia it would be possible to secure a position in the Russian court or state service....
The plan was carried out. No one was allowed to know of my return from Paris; I went into hiding for a few weeks with a family in Lundenburg—very dear people. In the meantime My Own—I never called him Artur, but My Own, so I shall do the same here in these recollections—provided for the publishing of the banns, secured trusty witnesses who would hold their tongues, made everything ready that was necessary, documents, traveling money, luggage, etc. Fortune favored us; the family got no wind of the banns published in a remote suburban church, and one fine morning—it was June 12, 1876—I drove in my traveling dress and hat to Gumpoldskirchner parish church; my betrothed was waiting for me there with his witnesses and mine, and in a side chapel a priest of venerable years united us. We were man and wife.