Intimate friendship rarely exists without nicknames, and so I used to be called, not only by Hedwig but also by My Own, not Bertha but _Löwos_, and I used to call Hedwig _die Hex_ (the witch). That does not sound very friendly, but as it was the pet name which her own idolized mother—a splendid old lady of clear and open mind—called her by, I also adopted it. Die Hex helped me faithfully in my life work; she became one of the officers of the Union; she adapted my novel, _Die Waffen nieder_, for young people under the title _Marthas Tagebuch_ (“Martha’s Diary”); she gave me much useful counsel; and in many trying hours was a support and comfort to me. “Yesterday at Erlaa received a very valuable gift”; this entry I find in my diary of May, 1894. Erlaa is the name of a castle in the vicinity of Vienna, occupied by Duke Elimar von Oldenburg and his family. There we were often invited to dinner. The castle is surrounded by a splendid park, and I remember how, during that May time, the intoxicating perfume of elder blossoms poured in at the open terrace doors, and what a sweet tumult thousands of songsters made in the shrubbery. The duke’s consort—she was called duchess from courtesy, but, inasmuch as she was morganatically married, she had only the baronial title—was a striking personage of tall, overslender, willowy figure. Being very musical, she delighted in attracting artists into her house, and she herself, as well as the duke, used to spend many evenings at the piano and melodeon, or with the violin and cello. The duchess—since every one gave her that title, I will call her so too—was not particularly well disposed to me. I discovered that afterwards. Coming from a sternly puritanic family, she found my free religious views rather repugnant to her. I have letters from her in which she attempted to convert me to stricter articles of faith; but I learned through remarks that she made to others that she accused me of “materialism,” that my novel _Die Tiefinnersten_ had particularly displeased her, because in it—according to her idea—I ridiculed everything ideal, profound, or sacred. Now the novel ridicules only the stilted and mystical style of those who are always making use of the words “profound” and “inmost,” when they cannot find anything clear to say.