The war moved toward its end. On March 3, 1878, the Peace of San Stefano was signed. The Dedopali’s two sons had come out unscathed; the older—with the rank of colonel—had fought at Plevna in the emperor’s suite; the younger, then a captain, had taken part in the storming of Kars. In Kutais many families were in mourning. The returning sotnias (“hundreds”) did not return as hundreds. Our family at home were greatly rejoiced that the war had spared us. My mother-in-law had gone with her two daughters Luise and Mathilde to spend the winter in Florence, because the latter was ill with a severe cough and the physician had prescribed a mild climate. In the spring, on their way home, they stopped at Meran, and from there came the news that Mathilde’s condition had grown worse; that she was suffering from severe attacks of fever, and her life was in danger. A few days later came the tidings of her death. Not yet twenty years old, and so beautiful and so worshiped by her mother ... how could that mother bear such a blow! They say she looked like an angel on her bier with a wreath of roses on her golden hair unbound and streaming down on both sides. The remains were brought back to Harmannsdorf—it must have been a sad journey for the poor mother—and from there were transferred to the family vault in Höflein. The news brought us deep grief, and we wept bitterly for the sister so prematurely snatched away from us, with whom we had spent many happy hours, and who had always stood lovingly by us. As I say, it was ebb tide in the lessons. So my husband tried his hand at writing. The war correspondence published in the _Presse_ had been much praised, and in producing it he had discovered in himself a talent for writing a light and picturesque style. He now composed some descriptive articles on the Caucasus and its people, and sent them to various German weeklies. These contributions were gladly accepted and paid for. Was it envy or was it imitativeness? I wanted to see if I could not write something too. I had never felt the call within me. When I was sixteen—at that time it was envy and imitativeness, awakened by Elvira’s successes—I had indeed written a short story entitled _Erdenträume im Monde_, and a periodical which long since had suspended publication, _Die deutsche Frau_, had brought it out and through the editor’s correspondence department had asked for further contributions: “I should not bury my talent.” Since that time, however, with the exception of letters (which I was tremendously fond of writing), I had written nothing.