Next picture: A brilliant ball in the _haute finance_, in which we participate as affianced lovers. Now I am surrounded, and the most gorgeous young cavalry officers are paying court to me—one in particular begs permission to call at my house when I am married. Evidently he thinks an old man’s young wife may become interesting. But my fiancé is furious, and makes a scene with me because I propose to go out to supper on the uhlan’s arm. I laugh, leave my cavalier, and take the arm of the angry man. “Oh, I’ll be good,” I say soothingly. Still another picture: A drive about the city, three of us, my mother and the engaged couple, to look at house-furnishing goods, carriages, gowns; also a drive to the suburbs to look at the truly princely villa that was destined as a nuptial gift for me. One picture more: An afternoon at our home. My betrothed and I are alone for the first time. “Bertha, do you know how ravishing you are?” He puts his arm around me and presses his lips to mine. The first love-kiss that a man had given me. An old man, an unloved man.— With a suppressed cry of disgust I tear myself free, and in me arises a passionate protest—No, never— On the next day the presents were sent back; I broke the engagement. My people had indeed tried to remonstrate: the scandal—the breach of faith—I ought not to have said yes, I had not been compelled to, but to draw back suddenly now—I should at least think it over for a while yet— “No, no—I cannot, _cannot_—I’d rather die!” And so the letter of dismissal was sent off. A few hours later the daughter rushed to me and wept at my feet: I must not treat her father so badly—I must revoke the cruel decision.... But there was no changing my mind now. Stubbornly I clung to my “I cannot, I _cannot_!” Soon the whole episode lay behind me like a bad dream which I felt it a refreshment to have waked from. My engagement and disengagement had taken place at carnival time; in the summer I was no longer thinking of them. We spent this summer in Baden near Vienna, where my mother had bought a small villa. It was a jolly summer, full of picnics, watering-place music, and dancing parties. A little circle of society was formed, including a few elegant and pretty young girls and numerous young gentlemen, mostly officers, and also the indispensable mothers; we met daily—often three times a day, at noon in the park during the music, in the afternoon walking to the Helenental, and again in the evening (if there was not a _réunion_) at the home of one family or another, or at the evening music in the park. I had formed an especially intimate friendship with a girl of my own age, by name Marietta, Marchesa Saibante. She was a striking sight: a tall and rotund figure (at that time angular thinness was not yet stylish), raven-black hair and eyes, dazzling teeth, very red lips and very red cheeks—but withal a snub nose and coarse features in general.