A SECOND ANONYMOUS MESSAGE
Chlodwig Helmer was writing the last act of his drama. He was well
satisfied with his work. But he knew how wide and perhaps impossible was
the gulf between the finishing of a theatrical piece and its production.
Yet even as it was, he felt his heart swell with that comfortable
sensation which every creative artist experiences when he succeeds in
clothing in definite form that which has hovered in his mind.
Ever since Helmer had left the Sielenburg, he had occupied himself
exclusively with literary work. His dismissal had come to him very
unexpectedly. One morning Count Sielen had received him with these
words:—
“My dear Helmer, I have something to say to you.... During the two years
since you have been with me, I have become very fond of you. You are a
fine, sensible fellow, you have irreproachable manners—I have no fault,
absolutely no fault to find with you and yet—do not be surprised—I am
giving you your congé.... Do not ask my reasons, but I give you my word
of honor that you are not to blame for my taking this step. As a proof
that I feel for you something more than good will, I am going to give
you recommendations as hearty as you could desire. You will secure a
place ten times better than this; and in order that you may have
opportunity to look about and to choose I am handing you a check for a
sum sufficient for you to live two years free from anxiety.... No, no!
do not protest: you must accept it out of love for me ... in order to
console me. It is painful enough for me to lose you.... In fact, I need
the services of a physician rather than of a secretary ... but I shall
miss you keenly, and I do not want to have the additional sorrow of
knowing that you are worried; it is not always easy to find a place and
you must not take the first that offers—in short, you dare not refuse to
do this favor for your old sick friend.”
Helmer also had not found it easy to leave the count. A few days after
this peculiar notice and after a very affectionate leave-taking from the
old man, he departed from the castle of Sielenburg. He had no
opportunity to say good-bye to Franka: on the day of his departure she
had gone for a visit in the neighborhood with the Countess Adele. Better
so—the farewell would have been hard for him. And perhaps it was better,
on the whole, that he was going away, for he would otherwise have been
certain to fall desperately in love with the beautiful girl. Already he
felt that he had partly lost his heart to her—so it was best as it was.
He settled down in one of the suburbs of Vienna where he proposed to
devote himself to literary work for a time. Perhaps, if he should
succeed, he might exclusively follow this career.
He took up his abode in a villa situated amid green vegetation. He had
easy access to his beloved forest; if he desired to go to the city it
was a short and speedy trip by the cars. There he frequently visited his
boyhood friend, Baron Franz Bruning—the one to whom he wrote the long
letter from the Sielenburg and who now had a Government position. Not
that Helmer found any especial enjoyment in this intercourse. The
character and nature of his early playmate had developed in a direction
which was simply uncongenial to him. But old associations always form a
bond not easily broken. He also associated with a few young people in
literary and artistic circles. Nevertheless, he rarely, at most only
twice a week, went to town; for his work kept him fast in his voluntary
isolation.
“Curtain!” Now the last scene of the drama was completed and he wrote
the word “Curtain” with a joyful sigh of relief. He was startled from
the agreeable relaxation of the moment by a knock at the door. He
shouted, “Come in!” and there entered a very elegantly dressed man of
medium stature with a highly colored, full-moon face adorned with a tiny
black mustache.
“Ah, is it you, Franz?”
“Yes, I had to hunt you down in your den—if for nothing else, to talk
with you about the astonishing news.”
“What news?”
“Give me a cigar first. Thanks! I mean the news from Sielenburg.”
“I know nothing about it.”
“Do not you read your paper, man alive?”
“I confess I have been so busy the last few days with my work that I
have scarcely glanced at the papers.”
“And you did not know that the old count is dead?”
“Dead!” exclaimed Chlodwig, in a tone of genuine concern. “How? When?”
“A few days ago—and his granddaughter, Miss Franka, whom you admired so
much, is left universal legatee.... She seems to have succeeded in
making good.... Have not you a chance there? She would be a match!”
Chlodwig was dumb with astonishment. He was, indeed, glad that such a
piece of extraordinary good fortune had befallen the charming young
lady; but one thing he contemplated with horror—the crowd of
fortune-hunters that would surround her.
“If you had been a foxy fellow,” pursued the other, “you would have
turned the girl’s head—but, of course, you could not have foreseen what
was to happen to her.”
Without paying any attention to these observations, which seemed to him
forced in their humor, Chlodwig said:—
“This news moves me deeply ... the poor count ... and the
granddaughter ... a remarkable romance!... Where did you read all this?”
“In the ‘Presse’; three days ago the report of the count’s death, and
this morning, the will.”
Chlodwig glanced through the papers lying on his table and found the
paragraphs.
“Are you not going to condole with the orphan so cruelly robbed of her
grandpapa?”
Chlodwig shrugged his shoulders. Bruning’s tone was particularly
disagreeable to him to-day.
Franz stood up. “But I must look around a little ... you are charmingly
situated.... What a view out over the open....”
From the window he went to the bookcases.
“Look! look!—what a swarm of poets: Stefan George, Hofmannsthal, Dehmel,
Liliencron, Swinburne, Rostand... Verses, verses, verses.... Well, as
you yourself are a poet, of course you must wade through them all.... I
cannot read more than two lines of rhyme at one fell swoop ...
everything exaggerated goes against my very soul ... a hundred, or say
fifty, years ago, in the romantic epoch, such things were at least
permissible; in these days all this seems false to our prosaic world,
which is avid of money and power, and it finds no echo. To win the
battle, one must force one’s way through with one’s elbows. As far as I
am concerned, one may indulge in a little wooing and cooing, but no
romances.... And what have you there! Technical journals about airships
and the technic of aviation? Does that interest you? I can understand
that. The thing can be taken in earnest: a new sport, a new weapon, a
new industry....”
“Nothing else?”
“Well, yes; also new regulations for insurance against aviation
accidents.”
He continued to rummage through the book-shelves—“Oh, yes, you have the
novels of aerial warfare: Sand, Martin, Wells ... those are mere
phantasmagorias. One must stick to the truth. One must learn to know and
to despise men and things as they are—then can one best conquer them and
make them useful.... But I see that you are not in the mood to discuss
to-day: you are generally ready to go off half-cocked when I let some of
my knowledge of the world shine upon you.”
“Shine?—Your pessimism has about as much shine in it as a pair of
snuffers ... and snuffers, you know, are things not used in our day:
they were good enough for tallow candles, but not for electric lamps and
search-lights.”
“Now I recognize you again, you incorrigible poet—truly I can find no
harsher expression. You will be breaking your dainty wings bravely in
our rough reality, you—there now, I have invented still another
insult—you cloud-dweller! But I will no longer beard you in your own
den ... besides, I have no time—you live horribly far away from the
boundaries of civilization. Let us see you before long....”
When he was left alone, Chlodwig sat down again at his writing-table and
attempted to read over the last act of his just-completed drama, in
order to put in some last touches. But he could not fix his mind on it.
His thoughts kept flying to the old count’s deathbed and to the
remarkable vicissitude in Franka’s fate. He felt impelled to speak to
her, and so he took a sheet of paper and began to write without being
certain whether he should send the letter or not.
Mistress of the Sielenburg, I salute you!
This time you have not appeared to me in a dream, but you are vividly
visible before my inward eye. For I have just heard what has happened
to you, and I see you surrounded by a thousand perils and by as
many—what is the opposite of perils?—I cannot find the right
expression.... Well, as perils signify threatening misfortune, so here
I mean “beckoning felicity.”
In my previous letter I mentioned things which in gloomy days and ways
might offer shelter and refuge in sorrow and poverty—things whereby
one may win the power to rise above one’s self. Now you are
rich—superlatively rich. You can command everything that belongs among
the so-called “amenities” of life: you are protected against cares and
privations and humiliations. With your wealth you can escape
innumerable forms of suffering; whether you can purchase the highest
forms of enjoyment and pride in life—depends on the strength of your
spirit.
Against the peril of wealth I suggest the same talisman as was
contained in my former letter—to elevate yourself above yourself—to
take hold on the life of the universe, on the efforts of humanity. The
peril for the rich is in being drawn down into the abyss of
the—ordinary. The banal duties of luxury waste time and stupefy the
intellect. The attempt will be made by pleasure-seekers and
pride-cankered people to whirl you away into social dissipations;
smart hussars and dragoons will besiege you in order, by securing your
hand, to get possession of estates where they can enjoy hunting and
horse-racing, tennis and automobiling, bridge and flirting, and, if
they chance to be aristocrats, will make you feel it bitterly that you
are not presentable at court.
Yet I know well that life is so full of the unexpected, the
uncalculated, and the marvelous, that such general warnings, such
sermonizing, sounding as they do rather perfunctory, perhaps will find
no application to what is before you. But I could not endure that you
should be shunted over on that track where the society that surrounds
you runs along empty of all lofty aims and deaf and blind to the
mighty changes that are in preparation....
I do not believe that the generation of our day has the time to run
the cars of tradition over the rails of convention to the very end.
There are ominous signs flashing along the horizon. New and unheard-of
events are coming to pass—and soon! And they do not need come by a
revolution. That also is an ancient and probably antiquated form of
transformation. Quite new forms may make their appearance. It may be
that the flashing yonder does not portend a tempest; perhaps it is
only the twilight of a rising sun—a sun which none of us has seen as
yet, for we are still only children of Barbarism’s polar night which
has lasted hundreds,—nay, not merely hundreds but thousands of years.
I want to see you, Franka, among the heralds of the coming light,
among those who are storming the cloudy walls behind which it is still
concealed.
Do not believe that, because you are a woman and young and beautiful,
such a part is not cast for you. The new day offers women also the
right of fighting in the ranks,—or rather they are winning it for
themselves,—and assuredly the old sagas gave them spears and
shields—the Valkyrie also are young and beautiful—Hojo-to-ho! Heia-ha!
Franka, become great, or at least will something great!
Mankind to-day—but so few realize it—stands at a turning-point more
decisive than any in its previous history. This has often been said
before—all the instigators of any political or scientific revolution
have been accustomed to close their manifestoes with the ringing
words: “A new era is beginning”; and yet things remained exactly as
they were before. But now:—the mystery of the air—the uplift to the
heights—that is going to change everything, everything that now goes
under the name of civilization. This will make the distinction between
the coming epoch and the present, one sharper than between any of the
so-called epochs of history. Aye, everything, everything is to be
changed, and in a tempo which will be related to the changes of
earlier times somewhat as an electric locomotive compares with a
pedestrian’s gait, or as a hurricane whirling up waterspouts compares
with a summer breeze crinkling the surface of a pond. We shall not be
able to stand against such a tempest. We shall be either borne upon
its wings, or swept away by it.
A friend has just been scolding me as a “Poet,” because I have the
fault of using figures of speech and have the—to him—much worse fault
of being an optimist. Do not be deceived by this, Franka. I am not
unreasonable. It requires a far keener sense to perceive the aroma of
beauty and goodness which penetrates the atmosphere of our lives than
it does to behold only the harsh and hateful, or else to see it, even
where it is not present....
I cannot bring this letter to a close, so I will simply stop....
That morning Franka received a very abundant mail, consisting of
congratulations and letters of fealty from the various persons employed
on the other estates that had become hers, begging letters of the most
extraordinary pretensions from unknown persons, offers of commodities
from all kinds of business houses; and among all the weeds one fresh
bouquet—Chlodwig Helmer’s second message to her.
She read the letter and read it again, and it gave her pleasure. What
had hovered dimly before her inward vision—to dedicate her wealth to
some great and noble purpose—was now put before her as a command: “Be,
or at least _will_, something great.” So then, there was one person who
felt that she was capable of forming such a purpose and of carrying it
out; and it was the same person whose ideas so completely coincided with
her dear father’s. She determined to take the advice of Chlodwig
Helmer,—for she had no doubt that he was the writer of the unsigned
letter,—and to ask him what he considered the great work which she
should go forth, armed with spear and shield, to accomplish.... Aye, it
was true, he was rather inclined to speak metaphorically, but behind his
metaphors there must be something actual and comprehensible:—he must
tell her and answer her questions.
In the mean time, the letter served to confirm her in her as yet
unformulated aspirations. First of all, she must escape from the nets
and bonds which her great-aunt was anxious to throw around her. Up to
the present time she had postponed making any explanation; now
Chlodwig’s letter gave her the impulse to declare her independence that
very day. She was certain of Dr. Fixstern’s practical coöperation.
When at luncheon-time she entered the small dining-room where the
household were all assembled, she asked her aunt to grant her an
interview as soon as they had finished the meal.
“That will be perfectly convenient,” replied Aunt Adele. “I also have a
number of things that I want to say to you, and we must have a perfectly
clear understanding regarding those things which we recently talked
about.”
They took their places at table. It was only a small company. The
relatives that had come from a distance had taken their departure. Dr.
Fixstern also had gone to Vienna, and only Miss Albertine, Cousin
Coriolan, and the domestic chaplain were present besides Franka and the
countess. So far, the affairs of the household had gone on without
alteration—Countess Adele held the reins, and no instructions were asked
from Franka.
Winter had set in. The trees were leafless and the first fires were
lighted.
“We shall soon have snow,” remarked Coriolan. “Oh, how gay it used to be
here in years gone by at this time of the year.... We always had great
hunting-parties ... a thousand hares on one day and often twenty or
thirty guests at the hunting-dinner—and then a famous _jeu_ till late at
night. Listen, Franka, next year you must certainly give a
hunting-party....”
“I will look out for that,” remarked Countess Adele; “we shall keep up
to the traditions of the Sielenburg. The Sielenburg Hunts were famous
all over the country. So they were at our other estates.”
“Yes, the late count—blessed be his memory—was very fond of hunting on
his estate in Carinthia,” said the reverend father; “there’s a splendid
run for stags.”
“We let it this year,” said the countess.
“Not to any manufacturer or Budapest Jew, I hope?” exclaimed Cousin
Coriolan. “I’d rather have the game run wild all over the forest than
permit unsuitable persons to hunt on a preserve,—and big game, too,—so
that brokers might put up a sixteen-horned stag in their offices where
they speculate over futures in the grain-market.”
“Since you are talking about grain, Herr Baron,” said the reverend
father, “the price of flour has gone up again and so have meat and milk.
The poor people, especially in the cities, will soon be unable to exist.
You will have an opportunity, Miss Franka, to practice charity. Truly,
there is much poverty and the rising cost of provisions....”
“Who is at fault?” interrupted Coriolan. “The low classes no longer know
what they ought to want. They want to have theaters and concerts, and
there are always agitators who stir them up to discontent—unscrupulous
people—the so-called leaders, always from the circle of the
intellectuals, as the Freemasons and Jews like to call themselves. If
some radical way is not adopted to put an end to this mob, I am in favor
of driving them out, since it is against the law to shoot them down....”
“But, Baron,” said the reverend father soothingly, “that would be rather
too drastic. The working-people are quite right in their desire to
better their condition!”
“What is that?—‘better their condition’—believe me, your reverence, in
the old days they were all far more content, the artisans as well as the
peasants. My father and my grandfather always used to tell how much
better things were before 1848 than they are now. The common people were
under the protection of the nobles ... they were happy and satisfied and
industrious, and they had no thought of the foolish nonsense which is
now preached to them—equal rights and the like. They were far happier,
indeed, they were. Moreover, times are growing worse and worse. A firm
government must take a hand and lock up these pestilential babblers on
the Franzensring—the Minister-President ought....”
“Oh, I beg your pardon, Coriolan, don’t begin to talk politics again,”
exclaimed Miss Albertine. “It is almost rude to do so in the presence of
ladies. You know we are not interested in such things, because we don’t
understand them at all, and we don’t want to understand them.”
“I am talking with the chaplain ... you are at liberty to talk about
your own feminine trash....”
“Feminine trash, indeed! How coarse you are! I must tell you frankly
that your manners often are very objectionable! Do not be offended with
me, but I make the observation for your own best good.”
After luncheon Countess Schollendorf invited Franka to accompany her to
her room.
“Here we shall be quite undisturbed.... There ... now tell me what you
have to say.”
She had sunk down on her little sofa, near which stood a small
work-table. She took up her knitting, for she was assiduous in her
endeavors to provide the village children with knitted or crocheted caps
and underwear. Franka took her seat in an armchair at the other side of
the table. She was visibly agitated. Her mourning-gown accentuated the
pallor of her face, and her mouth trembled slightly. It was not so easy
for her to speak what was on her mind. To be sure, she had for several
days gone over what she intended to say, and her intention was unshaken,
but now, when the moment had come, she felt a certain awkwardness.
“Now let us have it. What is the matter with you? You look quite
disturbed, and at table you did not speak a word ... are you not quite
well? You look very pale. The way you dress your hair is not becoming to
you ... you must have it done in some other way. When one has such a
head of hair one should wear it in braids, otherwise it looks
disheveled.”
“What I want to say to you, dear aunt, is this: I am going to Vienna
to-morrow and I intend to take up my residence in my house on the Wieden
and manage my own housekeeping. I shall take of the servants here only
my maid; the rest may stay on with you, as I am going to leave you in
charge of the Sielenburg so that you may manage it as long as you wish,
just as you have done.”
Countess Schollendorf dropped the red woolen jacket with its one
completed sleeve into her lap. She was speechless.
Franka, whose courage was gradually coming back, continued:—
“The administration of my property I am putting into the hands of Dr.
Fixstern, who has always enjoyed my grandfather’s perfect confidence,
and who made only one condition, that I should select a second assistant
to share with him the labor and responsibility of this function.”
“What does all this mean? Have you lost your wits? I do not understand
you ... you propose to go to Vienna ... well, as far as I am concerned,
I can go there perfectly well. The winter here is very gloomy. But, of
course, this year I cannot take you out into society, for we are both in
mourning. We should naturally take the servants with us—the cook and the
coachman; then only the castellan and a couple of housemaids would stay
here ... but leave all that to me.”
“Excuse me, aunt. You did not understand me. I have invited you to
consider the Sielenburg as your home.”
“You—... me? ... invited?”
“Yes, for I intend to keep house in Vienna myself and be my own
mistress.”
“You are going to live alone ... you? A young thing like you ... it is
scandalous!”
“I am of age and perfectly independent, and I know how to manage my own
life in such a way that no one will ever dare to apply the word
‘scandalous’ to me.”
“What audacious language!”
“I will speak with perfect frankness. I propose to take charge of my own
destiny. You lately explained to me that I was to accept from your hands
a husband, a couple of lady friends, and also a little pocket-money ...
but I intend to choose my own husband or not marry at all; and as to my
friends I shall be able to find them among those who have been brought
up as I was and who think as I think. If we two should remain together,
dear aunt, there would be an endless unprofitable battle. You would
always be striving to remodel me, to educate me, to lay down all kinds
of restrictions, and to enforce all sorts of commands; and I, on my
side, should try to resist this whole guardianship, to escape from
it,—and you would be vexed with me all the time,—in short, it would be
for both of us a life of bitterness. The separation cannot be painful to
either of us, for I was not brought up here—I belong to another world of
ideas, I have quite another view of life. We have lived together for
only six months, and in that time neither of us has taken to the other;
very often you have been annoyed with me, and likewise my whole nature
has revolted against the attempted domineering. In spite of our
relationship, we are still strangers. As for the respect due to the
sister of my generous beloved grandfather, I shall certainly never fail
in that....”
“You call this respect? I call it unheard-of impudence.”
“You see how little we understand each other.”
“I shall certainly not remain in Sielenburg if you arrogate to yourself
the claim of being the mistress and allow me to stay here as a favor.”
“I am not arrogating....” She stopped.
“You mean, you are the mistress, and I am your guest? Thank you most
humbly.”
“No, aunt. I certainly said the Sielenburg should be your home with all
that it contains and all that appertains to it, and I am ready to grant
you the use of it as long as you live—I mean for unrestricted use, that
is to say, with all the revenues that belong to it ... by legal
contract.”
The old lady hesitated. That was an attractive offer. For Franka herself
she cared very little. Only a short time before she had, so to speak,
proposed to expel her from the Sielenburg. She took up her knitting
again and mechanically took a few stitches.
“We will think it over,” she said after a while.