I was fulfilling my duty as editor of a great literary periodical. That flood of generally mediocre manuscripts, all of which demanded to be read! Occasionally, as in a big, stupid cake, a raisin here and there—the rare products of genius. Once there was a special editorial feast-day; I had found a big raisin, a work of remarkable depth and delicacy and quite incomparable grace of construction. That was a delight, a genuine intoxication; a new talent—that is certainly nothing trifling, is it? Above all things, what is the man’s name? B. Oulot—a singular name, but the world will soon get used to it. But this was not the only singularity. I take into my hand again the letter which accompanied it. Where does the man live and what else does he do? A Russian postage-stamp; the letter is dated from Zugdidi, Government of Kutais.... And there is also a request for leniency, as the work is the writer’s first. That too! I see to it at once that the honorarium shall be sent immediately, so as to keep the new contributor in good humor, and I write a letter of unreserved appreciation of this first work, with an urgent request for further articles. These also came, and my delight and astonishment kept on increasing. They betrayed a scientific and philosophical competence equal to that of any university professor, but at the same time a grace, and a humor that triumphed over everything—no, assuredly it was not a university professor. We got to talking together, of course through letters. We could not get to the end of all that we had to say to each other. In this exchange of ideas we discovered that we had in common so many opinions about art and life that it would have been sheer nonsense to keep bothering with society flourishes, and we began to use the “thou” like two good comrades. It was brother heart on this side, brother heart on that; but on one occasion I must have expressed myself so vigorously and so unequivocally—between comrades one is not so particular about little things—regarding some question which would have come within the purview of the as yet unpromulgated _Lex Heinze_, that a protest might seem proper. It followed in a very delicate, perfectly unobtrusive manner. The next letter ended with _Deine ergebene_—the feminine form. I was dumfounded. So B. Oulot is a woman—who would have thought that of the man! I demanded an explanation and received one. B. Oulot was—Baroness Bertha von Suttner, born Countess Kinsky.—Well, all right then. I did not feel offended at it after that, and anyhow there was no changing it now.