Lord Rosebery says, “I absolutely refuse to believe in a war between England and the United States over such a question, for that would be an unexampled crime.” Gladstone says, “Simple human reason is here sufficient.” The English heir-apparent and his son telegraph to the _World_, “It is impossible for us to believe in the possibility of a war between the two friendly states.” How if the Prince of Wales had spoken out in as martial a tone for his nation as certain continental editors found it for their interest to do in the name of “all England”? How if he had sent a sword-rattling, fist-doubling dispatch? Or rather no dispatch at all? How did heirs to the crown happen to write to mere newspapers? The generality are gathered together, or at least recruits—so tradition likes to have it—and the requisite blunt threats are uttered. The future King of Great Britain acted otherwise. My novel _Vor dem Gewitter_ (“Before the Storm”) was finished. The newly founded Austrian Literary Society issued it as its first publication in an edition of three thousand copies, and this inauguration was celebrated by a banquet given by the publisher, Professor Lützow. The actress Lewinsky, from the royal theater, read a chapter from my novel; congratulatory addresses were made, and when the champagne went round a great success was predicted for the enterprise; but in a few years—Austria is no field for literary establishments—the business failed. When I had written the word “End” on the last page of the book _Vor dem Gewitter_, I began another under the title _Einsam und arm_ (“Lonely and Poor”). And My Own, besides working at his two-volume _Sie wollen nicht_, wrote many stories of the Caucasus region. We were as industrious as bees,—that must be granted us. There we sat evenings at our common worktable, generally until midnight or later—and wrote and wrote. We used to talk about what we were doing, but we did not read our manuscripts to each other; we did give ourselves the delight, however, of reading each other’s proofs. Ah, those happy, lovely times! Even though they were full of cares,—for the Harmannsdorf stone quarries were getting more and more involved in difficulties, causing the whole family deep anxiety; for the fear ever increased that we should not be able to keep up the dear home. One sacrifice after another was demanded,—even the quite opulent rewards of our literary labors were swallowed up in the abyss,—all in vain; as I look back on those days the exclamation is nevertheless justified,—Oh, those lovely times! For I was sincerely happy and so was My Own, in spite of Venezuela, in spite of Armenia, in spite of Cuba, and even in spite of Harmannsdorf. Our kingdom lay elsewhere,—the kingdom of our closely united, laughing hearts.