AT LUCERNE
The clock of Eternity has moved forward a few seconds; we are writing
191—. The twentieth century is still “in its teens,” but 1920 is not far
away. The impatient, the impetuous, those who a few years ago were
shouting, full of anxiety or full of hope, “Now, now, everything is
going to change—a new era has dawned—mighty revolutions are before
us,”—all these have to confess that the face of the world, on the whole,
has not been very much altered, and that the actual transformations, by
reason of their gradual development, have been almost unnoticeable.
Terrible catastrophes like the sudden destruction of cities by
earthquakes, thrones overturned by revolutions, rulers assassinated by
the throwing of bombs, colonial and other wars—such things may have
devastated for a brief period the little strips of land affected and
aroused a general sensation, but soon everything became calm again. This
applies not only to the great disasters, but also to great and
unexpected good fortune such as the announcement of marvelous
discoveries or world-redeeming ideas:—such things startle men for a
moment out of their apathy, and awaken the wildest hopes; but then they
quickly flatten out and become commonplace, disappear from the surface,
and must pass through the stages of gradual development, until they
succeed in changing the face of the world. So many a fountain springs
foaming from the rocks, but only when it has, after a long course,
united with a thousand other trickling rivulets, does it become a river.
The hotels at Lucerne were filled to overflowing. It was once more time
for the “Toker Rose-Week” to begin. From year to year the “Rose
Pilgrims,” as they called themselves, had been streaming thither in
greater and greater numbers. It had become the fashion to spend seven
days in Lucerne. Many came not for the purpose of absorbing the lofty
intellectual enjoyments there offered, but in order to be seen. As the
hotels and private boarding-houses of the city were no longer sufficient
to harbor all the strangers, some automobile-owners had conceived the
idea of spending the nights in their machines,—for very abundant were
the cars that were provided with conveniences for sleeping and
toilet,—and a vast automobile-park covered the fields around the city.
During the first years Mr. Toker had been satisfied to lodge his guests
in a hotel engaged for the purpose, and all the exercises took place in
its public rooms. But now, the edifices and gardens which he had planned
were ready, and in their fairyland beauty they had won the reputation of
being one of the sights of Europe. The list of invitations which Mr.
Toker sent out in 191— was very differently constituted from that which
he had written down in his first prospectus. For many of those who then
bore brilliant names in the firmament of fame had been extinguished, and
new stars had flamed into sight. The aged die—room for the young!
It was the first day of the first week. Mr. Toker was as yet alone, and
was awaiting the arrival of his illustrious guests. His friendly old
face was radiant. He was satisfied with his work. Success had attended
it. The way the concentrated forces had acted was astonishing and their
effect was constantly increasing. As if unified in a central sun, the
flames of genius scattered over the earth were now blazing in his
Rose-Temple, and spread from there, as by a mighty reflector, all over
the earth, penetrating all corners where their light had never before
shone.
From many indications, Toker was aware that the level of Public Spirit
had been elevated by the influence that emanated from the Rose-Temple.
Watchwords, winged phrases which had flown forth from there, were
circulated in newspapers and were quoted in parliaments; the year-books,
containing extracts from the discourses delivered, were to be found in
the libraries of universities, and were widely used as manuals for the
instruction of the young; the wide international public listened to the
addresses of these great ones of the earth and accepted many of their
lofty thoughts and involuntarily introduced them into social
conversations; so that when Mr. Toker jestingly said, “This is my
world-ennobling factory,” he did not claim too much.
Certainly, not all the dreams that John A. Toker had conceived when he
made his plan had been fulfilled. What had given him the impulse to take
up the work had been his indignation that the splendid invention of a
dirigible airship had been greeted as a useful weapon for future wars.
No! against such a notion, against such possibilities,—a rain of
annihilation from the sky,—must a mighty storm of protest be raised; he
had called these great minds together for this purpose.
On the very first week of the Rose-Festival, this theme was printed on
the programmes and flaming anathemas against the barbarization of the
air went forth into the world, combined with the demand to put an end to
war itself. But no palpable result followed—the war ministries continued
to install their fleets of airships, and the construction of
fortifications and dreadnoughts went on without interruption, in spite
of the fact that these instruments of war would be superfluous and
useless if once they were exposed to the rain of explosives.
But John A. Toker had faith. Not in one year, and not in two or three,
could such a mighty work be accomplished—certainly, dirigible flights to
spiritual and moral altitudes were not easier of attainment than those
in the physical atmosphere.
“Well, papa, has not a single specimen of your great menagerie arrived
yet?” Toker’s only daughter, Gwendoline, a girl of eighteen, overflowing
with life, came and laid her hand on her father’s shoulder and
laughingly put this question. And when she laughed a whole _scherzo_ of
dazzling teeth, sparkling eyes, and mischievous dimples was playing over
her piquant little face. “Are you expecting wholly exotic birds this
year?” she added.
“Oh, Gwen, how can you be so lacking in reverence?”
Her features suddenly assumed the expression which she herself called
her “Sunday singing-book face.”
“Oh, papa, I am penetrated with awesome reverence! Only to think of all
these laurel-crowned moonshine occiputs, trumpeted together from every
corner of the globe, makes me shiver with respect! And is it not true
that this year a ‘Jap’ is coming?”
“A Japanese, yes, daughter. You know I do not permit abbreviations for
whole nations. Or do you like it when your father is spoken of as the
‘Yankee’?”
“Dear me, and what do you say when your daughter is called a ‘Gibson
Girl,’ or the ‘Dollar Princess’?... Oh, look! there is one flying now
and there is another. And there, away down on the horizon,—is not that
an airship?”
The balcony on which father and daughter were standing commanded a wide
outlook over land and lake. The edifices which Mr. Toker had caused to
be erected were situated only a short distance from the shore. The
narrow strip of land between the water and the buildings seemed to be
covered with a pale-red giant carpet—the whole piece was one single bed
of roses. The lake glittered in the sunshine and innumerable sailboats
and other craft were moving on its surface. On the distant horizon
snow-crowned mountain peaks, and above all a cloudless sky, against the
brilliant blue of which were hovering several dark dragon-flies—the
air-motors now no longer objects of wonder: no longer objects of wonder,
but nevertheless overpoweringly wonderful. Always, when at a greater or
less distance such an equipage was seen, men exclaimed just as
Gwendoline did: “See, an aeroplane, and there’s another, and yonder is
an airship!”
Mr. Toker raised his head and shaded his eyes:—“Yes, my daughter, I see
and rejoice! How high they fly! Oh, but man will no longer soar to the
heights with impunity....”
“‘With impunity’?... I don’t understand....”
“No, you do not understand. You do not know, as yet, why we are here. I
have not informed you what the object is which I am aiming at in my
Rose-Week. Perhaps I will tell you some other time—you have seemed to me
still too young, too childish. You are such a child still, Gwen,—lucky
girl!”
“When may I learn to fly, papa? When may I have my little airship?”
“Do you see—even that you would regard as a toy!”
Three days later Toker’s guests were all assembled in the Rose-Palace at
Lucerne. Not quite all, indeed, whom he had invited had responded to his
invitation; still, only a few stars from the firmament of living
celebrities had failed him. If it was a great privilege for the public
to see gathered together in one spot such a multitude of famous men and
women, and to hear them, it was for these guests themselves a still
greater pleasure to meet their brethren and sisters of genius under one
roof. Especially did the week that preceded the formal exercises offer
the most delightful opportunity for quiet, intimate intercourse among
those who had been in the habit of coming for several years. Many close
friendships had already been formed. No one who had once been a guest at
the Rose-Palace, however abounding in thoughts and experiences in his
own right, departed from the place without having been enriched in many
respects, without having gained a general deepening of knowledge and a
broadening of the mental horizon. All kept throughout the year a
delightful memory of the Rose-Days; an invitation to be present was a
lofty object of ambition to those who had not as yet been guests there.
John A. Toker felt his heart swell with the most joyful pride as he
joined the circle of his guests. Was it not the most noble assembly of
kingly personages that the world possessed? At brilliant court
festivities there might, indeed, be as many Excellencies, Highnesses,
and Majesties gathered together, but the majority of these title-bearers
would have sunk into oblivion in the next generation, while the names
and works of the majority of Toker’s Rose-Court would be handed down to
coming centuries.
In the hall of one of the first-class hotels at Lucerne at tea-time,
chattering groups are scattered about in various corners and
window-embrasures, separated from one another by potted plants and by
pillars and screens which divide the immense room with its niches and
bay-windows into practically small private parlors. The sofas and wide
armchairs of light-green straw are decked with cushions covered with
pale flowered silk and stuffed with eiderdown.
The larger and smaller groups and the solitary persons sitting here and
there, drinking tea, had evidently come from all parts of the world.
Although a certain international uniformity causes people to be
differentiated rather by the classes to which they belong than by their
nationalities, still there are certain indications by which one can tell
with some certainty by the external appearance whether the persons met
with are English or French, Germans or Americans, Slavs or Italians. In
this great hall you could also see some specimens of quite exotic
nationalities, for several Japanese and an East Indian Rajah were
present.
Two men, sitting at a small table on which the waiter had just set a
service of various liqueurs, were amusing themselves in guessing what
country this or that person, seated near them or passing by, came from.
“See, that family with the three tall daughters, the haughty mother, and
the papa reading the newspaper, is certainly English.”
“That was not difficult to detect since that gigantic newspaper is the
‘Times.’”
“That pretty little lady there, decked with tassels and ribbons, and at
the same time flirting with the three men talking with her so
vivaciously, must be a Parisian.”
“And that rather stout beauty over there, with the suspicion of a
mustache and a superfluity of jewels, is probably from some Balkan
State.”
“And that comfortable-looking, honest couple, so old-fashioned in their
dress, with their silver wedding celebrated long ago, and who make it
very evident that they are unhappy because they do not have two jugs of
beer in front of them, instead of that insipid tea, evidently come from
some little German city.”
“And that group by the window,—very elegant, but nothing conspicuous
about them,—it would be rather difficult to tell what country they come
from. National characteristics betray themselves generally by something
like caricatures—normal men of the cultivated classes, with their air of
assurance, with their correct dress, might come from anywhere; you can
tell what society they belong to,—that is, good society,—but not from
what country.”
A young man dressed entirely in white, remarkably slender and tall, was
just crossing the room on his way to the street door. Half a step behind
him marched respectfully an elderly gentleman of military bearing, but
in dark civilian dress.
“Who can that young man be? Nice-looking fellow! I should take him for
an American.”
“That would be a mistake. It happens that I can tell you about him. That
is Prince Victor Adolph, the fourth son of a German monarch. I also know
that he is not the ordinary kind; he is democratic, not to say
socialistic, in his tendencies; an enemy to court etiquette and against
everything military. For that reason, apparently, he is compelled to
have the old general with him as a traveling companion. That he is
American in his appearance is perhaps due to the fact that he spent a
term studying at Harvard University.”
The two gentlemen engaged in this conversation were from Vienna. They
had become acquaintances in the railway coupé while coming to Lucerne.
This method of travel was still in use, although an organized passenger
service by airship had already been established; just as at the end of
the thirties in the nineteenth century, after the opening of the first
railway the post-stage still ran merrily for a time. And just as at that
time many people vowed that they would never, as long as they lived,
enter a railway train, so now the majority of people swore that no money
in the world would tempt them to trust their precious lives to the
mysterious ocean of air. Besides, a new, safety-assuring power had come
into railway service, since everywhere was installed the rapid and
inexpensive and comfortable one-rail system.
One of the two Viennese was Baron Franz Bruning, Chlodwig Helmer’s
boyhood friend. He had not greatly changed; his full, round face had
possibly grown a trifle rounder, his black mustache a little bushier. In
his civil career he had been fortunate enough to have risen to the rank
of Hofrat.
The other, a personality pretty widely known throughout the city, was
named Oscar Regenburg. When his name appeared in the papers, “Among
those present was noticed,” it read: “Herr Oscar Regenburg, the
well-known sportsman.” If any man who has money and goes a good deal
into society, yet has no rank among the nobility, exercises no calling,
is not active in any business, is not honored with any public
appointment, but as a compensation possesses several saddle-horses and
an automobile, then—since every man must have some kind of title—he is
called a “sportsman.”
Sport, however, was not the goal of Oscar Regenburg’s ambition. He would
have much preferred to bear the title of “art connoisseur”; for he was
an assiduous collector of paintings, old armor, and rare china. His
spare time he spent in visiting art collections, picture auctions and
galleries. He also evinced great interest in music and the
theater—although he cultivated the stage not so much from before the
curtain as behind the scenes, especially in the form of pretty operetta
singers. Furthermore, he was an amateur traveler,—certainly not for the
purpose of enjoying beautiful scenery, but so as to be present wherever
expositions or horse-races or aviation meetings or festivals of any kind
were taking place. Therefore, he could not fail to be, for once at
least, a visitor at the Lucerne Rose-Week.
Genuine deep passions were not at the bottom of all these occupations;
Regenburg was a thoroughly apathetic man, mediocre in every direction;
his whole object in life was to fill up his superfluous time and spend
his superfluous money. He was a man of thirty-five, of insignificant
external appearance, but he always took pains to look elegant and _chic_
by following the latest fashion in dress, in behavior, and in the use of
slang. As, for example, the fashion had obtained among men, to sit as
negligently as possible with the right foot on the left knee, moving the
point of the shoe up and down and at the same time caressing the
bright-colored silk stocking visible almost to the top; there was no one
who let his toes play with more vivacity or expression, or who clasped
his own thin ankles more tenderly than he did.
The two men continued their conversation.
“I have no faith in these democratic poses among the sons of rulers,”
said Bruning, as he poured himself out a tiny glass of bénédictine.
“As far as I have observed, you take the attitude of ‘I have no faith in
it’ toward most things.”
“As a matter of fact, I regard it as a reasonable and useful quality to
be a skeptic. When a man has collected some little experiences in life,
and possesses some little knowledge of men, and has attained some
insight behind the scenes of the various social, political, and ...
other comedies which are being played on the world’s stage, one gets
along best by putting on the armor of doubt. Can it be that you are an
idealist nourished on illusions?”
“I?... Oh, I am just nothing at all—I live and let live.”
“That’s also a reasonable point of view. Well, but I am curious to
know what is to be offered in the Rose-Booth yonder. It is interesting
to see all the living celebrities trotted out by the great
dollar-ringmaster;—the play will certainly remind me of Hagenbeck, who
makes long-maned lions and spitting tiger-cats go through their paces
in unnatural attitudes. What is still more comic in the whole show is
that there seems to be a civilizing and world-improving aim bound up
with it—as if this world could be improved! Man remains man, and when
I say that, I do not say anything very flattering. And, above all, how
can the world be made better by a few self-conceited people making
speeches before a few other frivolous people? The only effect that
addresses have on me is to make me sleepy. I never attend them on
principle.”
“What did you come here for, then?”
“Because an old friend of mine—the poet Chlodwig Helmer—belongs to the
lion-tamer Toker’s gang of boarders. I get from this friend what the
whole object and aim of the circus of fame-crowned animals amounts
to....”
“Well, what is it?”
“Men are to learn to fly morally. Do you understand that?”
“Not altogether.”