Born into a noble but impoverished family in Prague, she excelled in education, mastering several languages and becoming a talented piano player. In 1870s, she began to work as a governess to the wealthy Suttner family but soon became engaged to the Suttners' youngest son Arthur Gundaccar Freiherr von Suttner but his family bitterly opposed the marriage and forced the couple to leave. In 1876, Bertha and Arthur left Austria and moved, at the invitation of Princess Ekaterine Dadiani of Mingrelia, to Georgia, where they remained for eight years. Despite acute financial problems, the couple enjoyed their stay in Georgia and earned their living by writing novels and translations. In the 1880s, the Suttner family reconciled with the couple, allowing it to return to Austria where they settled at the Harmannsdorf Castle. Bertha became actively involved in peace and conflict issues and wrote extensively on pacifism. In 1889 she wrote Die Waffen nieder! ["Lay Down Your Arms!"], which turned her into one of the leading figures of the pacifist movement. She continued to publish and gain international repute that resulted in her receiving the Nobel Peace prize in 1905. She died of cancer in June 1914, just one week short of the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand that unleashed the World War I.
In 1910 Bertha von Suttner authorized the publication of the English edition of her memoirs, in which she devoted the entire part IV (chapters 17 through 21) to her stay in Georgia.
In part 1, Bertha von Suttner described how, after eloping with her husband, she travelled to Georgia where he was welcomed by the Dadiani family in Kutaisi.
In part 1, Bertha von Suttner described how, after eloping with her husband, she travelled to Georgia where he was welcomed by the Dadiani family in Kutaisi.
And now the next morning we started for the goal of our journey, for Gordi, situated on a high plateau among the mountains. Count Rosmorduc chartered a troika and escorted us. It was jolly riding behind that spike team; the more the springless vehicle shook us up, the more fun we had out of it. The way was splendid; all the hedges were abloom with cascades of wild roses. At the same time the heat was frightful. All the more delightful the prospect that we were going among the mountains, where, as Count Rosmorduc assured us, cool and almost raw winds blow all the time.
After a journey of several hours across the plain we came to Pompey's Bridge; this is that place where one must leave the carriage and ride horseback the rest of the way. We were now at the entrance of the defile, and the peaks of the mountains which we were to climb stood out steeply against the azure sky. The stream which roared and foamed under Pompey's Bridge roared perhaps twice as loud in our ears because it had been described to us as the "Hippus" of the ancients; what classic craft — doubtless even Jason's Argo when he went to capture the Golden Fleece — must it not have rocked on its billows! This was the place, I remembered from the Dedopali's letters, where the young princely couple on their home journey had dismounted from the carriage, where the bridge had been spread with a carpet, and a triumphal arch of flowers had marked the boundary line of Mingrelia.
There was no triumphal arch awaiting us at Pompey's Bridge, but there was a pleasing surprise: Prince Niko, accompanied by a great retinue, had ridden down to the threshold of his dominion to welcome the "Contessina" and her husband. Under a tent a table was spread with refreshments. There we had breakfast first and a toast of welcome was drunk, and then we addressed ourselves to the ascent. Horses were in readiness also for us and Count Rosmorduc; for me a gentle pacer. Prince Niko lifted me to the saddle, and now we had to ride up the seven kilometers of serpentine road, while the cavalcade of the princely escort, in their picturesque costume, were around us performing all sorts of feats of horsemanship in their high saddles, springing up and down the steep sides of the pass, and offering a perfectly wonderful spectacle.
And as we rode upward the temperature grew cooler and cooler, and the prospect over abysses and valleys more and more magnificent. The sun had already disappeared behind the mountains when we arrived at our destination. Gordi is situated on a great plateau, in the background of which, buttressed by a mountain wall, stands the prince's castle, a wide edifice flanked with towers and adorned with numerous balconies and terraces. On the right and left at intervals were small, neat wooden villas. One of them was occupied by the dowager princess; one by Niko himself, because his castle was another that was not yet completed; one was for us; and the rest served as quarters for the other guests and neighbors.
The Dedopali was standing on the terrace of her villa to welcome us. Around her stood her women, her almoner, her private secretary, and her bodyguard. She took me into her arms and bade me welcome. "Présentez-moi votre cher mari, ma petite contessina, ou faut-il dire 'baronessina' maintenant?" She kissed my husband on the forehead, in Russian fashion, when he bent over her hand after the introduction.
We were soon conducted over to our little house, where we were to rest and dress for dinner. The small guest villa, built on a level with the ground, consisted of a sitting-room hung with gay cretonne and provided with furniture of the same, a bedchamber, and rooms for the man and maid who had been put wholly at our disposition. The dinner was served at the Dedopali's villa, on a broad open veranda. After dinner the company — there had been about thirty at the table — went out on the plateau, which lay in full moonlight; and now dances were performed, rockets were set off, choral songs were sung, and not till midnight did we retire. That was our reception at Gordi.
Our wedding excursion to the Caucasus lasted nine years. A long honeymoon! The first summer we spent uninterruptedly in Gordi, where we were kept until the family themselves went away—Niko to St. Petersburg, the Dedopali to Zugdidi. But the illusion regarding a position at the Russian court had shown itself to be an illusion. At first Niko took kindly to the idea, but soon it became apparent that if an attempt should be made to turn it into a reality, impossibilities would be encountered. So what was to be done? That life of nothing but pleasure and festivity which we had led there in the mountains could not be kept up without end, and to be forever "an always welcome guest" is really not a vocation.
We had broken with Harmannsdorf—or rather the parents had broken with us: they could not pardon us for our reckless step. Neither did we seek pardon. We had defiantly announced that we would make our way, and now we had to do it. We had kept up a most affectionate correspondence with the brothers and sisters, but the parents sent us a wrathy letter of reproach and repudiation, and never another word. My mother, to whom My Own [husband Arthur] had made a visit before our journey, had not indeed approved of the whole match and of the erratic elopement; but in a few days she had taken My Own into her heart, and her blessing accompanied us.
We now decided to settle in Kutais, and, for the time being, until Prince Niko had found a suitable situation for us (which he still treated as a possibility), to earn our living there by giving lessons in music and the languages. A cousin of the princess, who had been visiting at Gordi with us and whose home was in Kutais, promised to get pupils for us in her circles. These were certainly not exhilarating prospects, but our inner exhilaration was invulnerable. The whole life, the whole country seemed to us so interesting that the intensified sense of travel and adventure with which we had started out remained ever vivid; and, moreover, we were so unspeakably happy in each other that really (just as there are conditions in which one envies all people) we pitied all people who were not ourselves. The most delightful thing was that we felt our love not only not diminishing, but all the time increasing.
So, after the general breaking up of the party at Gordi, we went to Kutais, where another friend of the Dedopali — General Hagemeister — took us into his house as guests to remain until we should find a house and pupils. In a few weeks we were established in a little home of our own, and a number of the daughters of noble families in Kutais had presented themselves to me for piano and singing lessons. My Own gave a few lessons in German.
Now rumors of war [between Russia and the Ottoman Empire] began to buzz through the air. The year before [1876] an insurrection had broken out in Bulgaria. (It was asserted in other than Russian countries that this was fomented by Russian agents.) Russia demanded of Turkey reforms and guaranties for the safety of the Christians. Now the great powers met in conference — from November, 1876, until January, 1877, in Constantinople; in March, 1877, in London; but their decrees were refused by Turkey. Would Russia now declare war? This portentous question was on every tongue. The troops were waiting in expectation on the border.
And, sure enough, on the 24th of April came the Russian declaration of war, and, simultaneously, the crossing of the Pruth and of the Armenian border. The news was the more exciting for the reason that the Caucasus itself served as one of the two theaters of the war, and an invasion of Kutais by the Turks was one of the possible dangers.
I do not remember that we felt anxious. Nor did I have any feeling of protest against war in general, any more than in the years '66 [Austro-Prussian War] and '70 [Franco-Prussian War]. My Own likewise looked upon the war that had broken out as merely an elemental event, yet one of especial historical importance. To be in the midst of it gives one personally an irradiation of this importance.
We received from my mother, from my sisters-in-law, letter after letter, telegram after telegram: we must make our escape! We did not think of such a thing; on the contrary we wanted to make ourselves useful, and we offered our services to the governor, Prince [Dmitrii Ivanovich Svyatopolk-] Mirsky, as voluntary nurses of the wounded. Only one condition we made, — that we should work in the same place, if possible in the same hospital. That was not possible; they wanted to use him here and me there, and so we withdrew our offer. For to separate, especially in such perilous circumstances, no price would tempt us! So we remained in Kutais.
Our sympathies (at that time we still had "sympathies" in war) were with the Russians. The word was, "to free our Slav brethren"; that was the common talk all around us, and we accepted it in perfect faith. Moreover, a second watchword was in the air, raised by the Mohammedans [Muslims] living in the Caucasus, by the wild mountain tribes, Shamyl's comrades: revolt — shaking off the Russian yoke. All this sounded very heroic. But no insurrection broke out; the Caucasus proved to be satisfactorily Russianized and loyal. The sons of the land, looking very handsome in their Cossack uniforms, went to the front as one man to beat the Turks. "Sotnias," as bodies of a hundred mounted noblemen were called, joined the army as volunteers, and we saw them riding away under our windows.
The first death announced in the war bulletins was that of a young fellow whom we knew in Kutais, the only son of a Russian general's widow.
Of course, in all the neighborhood everybody who remained behind was seized with the Red Cross fever: making bandages, sending off supplies of tea and tobacco, treating the regiments that went through with food and drink, collecting money, planning and executing enterprises of beneficence,— all for the good of the poor soldiers. To-day it seems to me there might be something still better than this good,— not to send them out! To-day, too, we know from Tolstoi, the man who has the courage of truth, what the case was with the "dear Slav brethren" at that time...
[A lengthy quote from Tolstoy's "Patriotism and Christianity," follows.]
Well, at that time we two believed in this Slavonic brother love. My husband sent to the Neue Freie Presse at Vienna a series of letters about those events of the war of which the echo reached us. These were gratefully accepted for a time, but at length were found to be too pro-Russian — the Neue Freie Presse took the side of the Turks — and were declined.
As far as I was concerned, since I could not take care of the wounded, at least I helped diligently in the enterprises got up by the ladies of Kutais in their behalf. I remember an evening garden-party which assembled the inhabitants of the city on the "Boulevard," as a promenade in the middle of the town, shaded by trees, is called. There were Chinese lanterns, orchestral music ("God save the Tsar," a potpourri from Glinka's opera Zhizn dlya Tsarya, the Balkan March, Slavonic songs, and the like), sale booths, and a tombola. Between two trees, brilliantly lighted up, had been placed a great painting of a touching scene on the battlefield: in the foreground a wonderfully beautiful Russian sister of charity, with tears on her cheeks, bending tenderly over a wounded Turkish soldier, whose head she was raising in order to give him nourishment; in the background a tent, powder smoke, dead horses, and bursting shells. I myself shed a tear or two as I stood in front of that picture; and at the tombola, where I bought chances till my pocketbook was drained, I won a small earthen vase, which I had them raffle off again. And thus I believed that I had paid my tribute of sympathy for the tragedy of the Balkans.
The war took its course. We received very sad letters from the Dedopali; she was worried about her two sons, who had gone with the army.
Suddenly there arose the rumor that the plague had broken out in a place not far away. That filled us with real dismay. When the news came I burst out in self-reproaches. "Oh, where have I brought you? It is my fault that you came here, My Own." He comforted me: "Not for a moment have I regretted it. If only nothing happens to you! But even if we must perish now, still we have had our share of happiness."
The pestilence, however did not spread. The fate of being carried off by the terrible angel of destruction, to which we had resigned ourselves, was spared us.
In other respects things were going very badly with us. In the disorder caused by the events of the war no one any longer thought of taking lessons, and we were fearfully pinched. There were days when we actually made the acquaintance of the specter Hunger. But everything that befell us, whether joy or sorrow, brought us closer and closer together, and later we were grateful to Fate for having enriched us with such experiences. Without doubt they were essential to the strengthening of our characters, and to educating us into that sympathy with the sorrows of humanity, with the wretchedness of the people, which in days to come formed the basis of our united work in the service of mankind, and which awakened in each of us feelings that gave delight to the other.
The war moved toward its end. On March 3, 1878, the Peace of San Stefano was signed. The Dedopali's two sons had come out unscathed; the older — with the rank of colonel —had fought at Plevna in the emperor's suite; the younger, then a captain, had taken part in the storming of Kars. In Kutais many families were in mourning. The returning sotnias ("hundreds") did not return as hundreds.
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