Prince Adolf Wittgenstein sued for my hand and his offer was assented to by my mother. My assent he had already obtained in the kiss with which one of the duets, dying in sweet thirds, had ended. Our plans were thus formulated: The trip to America should be made—more than ever was the acquisition of a competency needful; he would immediately inform his parents of the betrothal; as his recognized fiancée I should remain in Europe, and if his venture succeeded then he would return and carry me back. A letter of approval speedily came from his parents, and so we became _Bräutigam und Braut_. In this relationship the singing of love duets grew twice as delightful. To be sure, the sadness of the quickly approaching separation was mingled with our happiness. Only a fortnight more and Adolf would be obliged to go to Bremen; his passage on the steamer was already taken, and the concert in which he was to make his début in New York was already announced. So have courage: a few months would soon pass, and next spring we could enter into the alliance of love. We exchanged rings and vows, and my betrothed set out for Bremen, where he was to sail, while we returned to Austria. We betook ourselves to Graz, where a sister of my mother’s had settled with her children. There we proposed to live in quiet retirement until Adolf’s return. Our Baden villa was sold—song and the infallible clairvoyant power had swallowed up almost everything. My mother had her inalienable widow’s portion left, and I enough to provide a suitable trousseau for my approaching marriage. I looked to the future now not with quietude, to be sure, but still with joyful anticipation. Not with quietude—for what if Adolf failed in his plans, or what if he should change his mind while over there ... such things do happen! And with joyous anticipation—for it would be likely to be an interesting, happy life by the side of a fellow-artist, who bore a great name, too, and was a dear, poetic, good-hearted man, to whom I was, if not indeed passionately, yet cordially, attached! From Bremen had come a farewell telegram full of love, and now several weeks must pass before I could get a letter from New York. But news of him reached me sooner than I expected,—terrible news. I found in the paper an item only a few lines long, with the heading: DIED ON THE PASSAGE A cable dispatch received by the family of Fürst Wittgenstein, at Castle Wittgenstein, reports that Prince Adolf Wittgenstein, who was on his way to America, suddenly died on board and was buried at sea. I uttered a shriek, and spent the whole night kneeling by my bed and sobbing. The next morning, with the forlorn hope that possibly the tidings were false, I wrote to the family, and received from Adolf’s twin brother the following reply: Schloss Wittgenstein, November 20, 1872 Liebe verehrte Gräfin Bertha,