AN EVENING IN THE ROSE-PALACE
Chlodwig Helmer had attained high literary rank during these years. His
drama, produced in the Volkstheater at Vienna, won great applause, and
was soon added to the repertory of every playhouse in the country. A
second drama—in verse—was granted the Schiller Prize. But his epic poem
“Schwingen”—“Pinions”—obtained the most signal success. The whole
campaign of the conquest of the regions of the air, from Icarus to
Zeppelin and Blériot, was celebrated. But, further, in prophetic tone,
dipping into the future,—and this part of the poem was by far the
greatest,—the changes were described which would in all probability take
place in consequence of that mightiest among the achievements of human
genius. Particularly did the poet sing those flights which, like a
corollary to physical soaring, should bear aloft into more luminous
regions the human intellect and the ethical aspiration of man.
The epic aroused immense enthusiasm. Translations into French and
English were made and the name of Helmer became famous throughout the
world, and of course reached the attention of John A. Toker, who
forwarded his invitation to the young poet. He did it with all the more
enthusiasm, because he had discovered in “Schwingen” the very same ideas
as had given him the impulse to the inauguration of the Rose-Week. It
was a noteworthy coincidence of thought. And yet, when you came to think
of it, not so remarkable after all.... Thoughts which were afloat in an
age are produced by the phenomena of that age, and they are precipitated
simultaneously in different places into different minds, so that it
frequently happens that great discoveries and inventions are made at the
same time by several discoverers and inventors, quite independently of
one another.
Still another young celebrity was invited by Toker for this year’s
Rose-Week at Lucerne: this was Franka Garlett.
On the evening before the public exercises were to take place, the
guests of the Toker Rose-Palace were gathered around the great table.
When the dessert was served, the master of the house tapped on his
glass. All became silent and listened:—
“My dear and illustrious guests! The beneficent custom here prevails
that no formal toasts are ever presented. All the eloquence that we are
capable of expending must be reserved for the public campaign which
begins to-morrow. But for the very reason that this is the last evening
which we are to have to ourselves, I will take advantage of it, in order
to tell you something which I have on my mind.”
He paused for a moment. All eyes were fixed upon him with eager
anticipation. His external appearance made a sympathetic and
confidence-inspiring picture: absolutely correct in his evening-dress,
but at the same time quite informal, almost negligent in his attitude.
His short-cropped hair was already perfectly white, but his cheeks were
of a bright rosy color, and a joyous expression of the greatest
good-nature showed itself in his face. In a somewhat altered voice he
went on:—
“When a few years ago I saw assembled here for the first time this
wreath of chosen men and women,—alas! some of the blossoms have been
blighted by the frost of death, but others have come to take their
places, for such is the way of the world,—when for the first time I had
conjured before me so many spirits of light, I believed that from their
collected brilliancy a sudden enlightenment might gush out over the
whole earth. That was an illusion! The thick darkness of ignorance,
misery, stupidity, and wickedness, in which our world is still densely
enveloped, is not to be so rapid dispelled. It will take much further
endeavor to drive it away. But that the efforts which have gone forth
from this place have not been wholly vain, I, and assuredly you, have
the fullest conviction. What especially pleases me, as the result of
this fortnight in the month of roses, is the advancement, the enjoyment,
the edification which you yourselves have all found here by being able
to hold familiar intercourse with people of your own stamp from the
domain of genius, by mutually giving intellectual stimulus and
enrichment to one another, by the consciousness that you, all of you,
whether you be masters in this art or that, whether you be discoverers
in this science or that, whether you be prophets in this sphere of
thought or that—that all of you, I say, still form only one
communion:—that of the elevators of human life. And a loftier life is to
stream forth from here and hasten that development through which all
mankind is to be brought up to a higher level. Oh, I know right well
what the doubters will reply: ‘What is carried away from your
Rose-Parliament, in the columns of innumerable newspapers, pamphlets,
and gramophone records, is merely words, words ... ideas ... and what
moves society are deeds and needs. Not by reason, but by the passions,
that is to say, by violent feelings, are the masses moved; all your
beautiful speeches glitter and burst like soap-bubbles.’ Of course,
ideas are not the only impelling forces; more powerful are the
instincts. It is always a mistake to explain the complicated movements
of the world and of society by the working of one element, of one force;
for numberless elements, numberless forces, are always in activity. And
to deny the force of thought is equivalent to ignoring the half of the
universe, which consists of matter and of spirit.”
“Is not papa a dear little old philosopher?” whispered Gwendoline, who
sat at the other end of the table, to her neighbor, a famous English
novelist.
“Feelings regulate actions,” continued Mr. Toker;—“granted; but
frequently feelings are ruled by thoughts. Ideas, among them illusory
ideas, are what kindle the enthusiasm of the masses, and are fought for.
Forth from ideas proceeds that sublime endeavor which is called the
ideal. What was striven for yesterday is the attained to-day, and gives
way to new endeavor, to new-born ideas, and that is equivalent to saying
to new ideals.”
“Now he has said enough, don’t you think so?” murmured Gwendoline again.
“One should not bore one’s guests.”
The novelist glanced at her reprovingly: “It does not bore _me_.”
“Thoughts are the begetters of sensations; above all, they are the
foundations of knowledge. Therefore, whoever scatters thoughts into the
world, scatters seed from which grow all those fruits that we enjoy
under the name of culture. There is much bitter fruit in with it,
because still many unworthy thoughts are floating about. Progressive
humanity requires high thinking! Soaring thoughts....
“This year, just as every year, a volume is to be published which will
contain your addresses: I propose to entitle this volume, ‘Menschliche
Hochgedanken’—‘Thoughts that soar.’ The beginning of our Rose-Weeks
coincided with the conquest of the air. You know that the impulse of
your joint action was given to me by the flights which were accomplished
by the first ‘dirigible’ through the sea of ether. Now it is for us to
bring about some victorious records by our flights into the azure realm
of the ideal. Thoughts are the vehicle for this—thoughts which soar
above the clouds—that is to say, high above the vapors of petty private
interests, above the flats of national contentions—in a word, thoughts
that soar! And so I close with one word, the war-cry which must be the
war-cry of the new, height-conquering age: the cry, ‘Upward!’”
“Upward!” responded the whole Table Round.
Thereupon all adjourned into the adjoining hall.
An illustrious company, indeed. There were few young people among them,
and not many women. The wreaths of unquestioned glory are usually twined
around masculine heads, and there mostly when they are bare.
The youngest of the thirty Rose-Knights was Chlodwig Helmer; the
youngest among the six ladies of the Roses—all of them wearing an
enameled rose on the left breast—was Franka Garlett.
As they sat or stood, they divided naturally into various groups. Some
passed through the open doors to the terraces, and among these was
Franka on Helmer’s arm.
It was a bright moonlit night in June; the air was full of intoxicating
fragrance rising from the dense parterres of roses. On the neighboring
lake glided illuminated boats, and even up in the air could occasionally
be seen a light moving swiftly by—probably some sentimental aëronaut on
an evening flight. Quite unobtrusively yet distinctly was heard the
music of an orchestra playing in a neighboring concert-hall.
Franka sat down in a rocking-chair at the end of the terrace and Helmer
stood by her side leaning against the balustrade. They gazed and
listened for some little time without speaking. Franka wrapped a trifle
closer around her the white silken scarf which she had thrown over her
shoulders.
“A cool breeze blows from the lake,” she remarked.
“Shall we go back to the hall?”
“Oh, no, it is fine here. Everything is so beautiful, so dreamy, so
magical.... Is it not remarkable that we two should meet here as
colleagues in the Knighthood of the Roses? How many years is it since we
first met in grandfather’s chamber at the Sielenburg? You a poor
secretary, I a poor orphan girl!—You are now a great and celebrated
poet!”
“And you—the Garlett! The name has such a distinction that nothing more
needs to be added to it.”
“What I have come to be, Brother Chlodwig, I owe to you. Had it not been
for those letters....”
“Well, yes; perhaps everything would have been different—perhaps more
happily for you.... I find in your face a trace of seriousness,
sometimes of sadness, which was not there when I saw you last.”
It had been two years since that last time. Circumstances had frequently
separated these two friends. Helmer had settled in Berlin, where, after
the successful performances of his drama, he had accepted a position as
a subdirector of the Royal Theater. Franka had frequently been absent on
her journeys, had spent one whole winter in southern Italy for a
complete rest;—in short, there had always been intervals of several
months, and finally now two years had elapsed without Franka and
Helmer’s having met.
But their correspondence had gone on without any cessation. They had
remained constantly in communication by letter. They exchanged full
confidences in regard to all their labors and plans; they shared their
views over all external happenings; but they never actually wrote any
personal confidences. His poems and her lectures formed the chief topics
of their correspondence; as colleagues they had become strongly bound
together; as man and woman they had remained rather like strangers,
although their letters had always preserved that soul-relationship of
brother and sister with which their correspondence had begun. It was for
both a great and genuine pleasure to be invited together as Mr. John A.
Toker’s guests; it gave to the festivities of this week a flavor of
intimacy. During these days they had seen a good deal of each
other,—every time he had been her seat-mate at table,—and they had told
each other all that was worth telling of their lives during the past two
years.
“So I look sad, do I?” replied Franka to Helmer’s observation. “And yet
I have no sorrow; I am not unhappy.”
“That is only a negative assurance—you do not say that you feel happy.
But I can imagine what you lack....”
“And I can guess what you imagine.... Well, it is true that in the life
that I am leading there is more or less renunciation; but isn’t that
necessary whenever one dedicates one’s self to any impersonal service?
How is it when a maiden devoted to piety takes the veil?”
“Fortunately you have registered no vow, Franka. You can always....”
“Marry, do you mean? Let us talk of something else. You are the last
person to say such things to me.”
“It is true, I myself directed you to the path of renunciation. As long
as your task completely occupied you—but does it still?”
“Do not ask me such confessional questions. The task is great enough to
fill any life; but I often feel myself too small for the task. Are you
quite satisfied, are you quite happy, Helmer?”
“No; but that is not at all necessary. I believe that no man has any
rightful claim to be. Least of all, we fighters. We need bitterness,
hindrances—our goal must forever seem farther away from us.”
At this instant the daughter of their host joined them:—
“I hope that I am not disturbing a flirtation.... Do let me sit down
with you, Miss Garlett. Oh, and please, Mr. Helmer, do not go away ...
you are among my favorites, because you are young still—comparatively
speaking. The famous specimens of wisdom which papa collects around him
are all too venerable for me; it is a genuine enjoyment to see two such
fresh geniuses as you are.... You ought to marry—pardon me, I am
chattering absurdities. Certainly, papa understands everything
imaginable: making money in heaps, carrying out gigantic undertakings,
universal politics, and dozens of other things—but not the education of
daughters. Oh, look,” she cried, interrupting herself, “isn’t that
lovely?”
She pointed to the dark horizon, where at that moment not merely one but
four airships, each provided with dazzling lights, were maneuvering.
They darted up and swooped down, made “figure eights” and loops, passed
and repassed one another in premeditated regularity—a regular
air-quadrille.
“Isn’t that still lovelier?” said Helmer, pointing to a shady clump of
bushes where irregular points of light were flickering. “There, do you
see?—fireflies! Nature is everywhere more beautiful than any of the
works of men. And do you know also why these little creatures, otherwise
so invisible, have put on such glittering coat-tails? They are in love
and they are out a-wooing.... Nature always makes use of beauty when she
is serving love.”
“I cannot answer for that, Mr. Helmer. It is my principle—for I am a
reservoir filled to the brim with the strictest principles—to turn the
conversation as soon as a man speaks the word love.”
“Yes, Miss Toker, you really give that impression,” laughed Franka.
Again a fascinating spectacle was presented to them—a great white
quadrilateral sheet, such as are seen on the stage of a moving-picture
theater, appeared on the horizon stretching up high into the sky and on
it were projected magnificently colored living pictures. Immense
pictures, for the force of the imagination multiplied their dimensions
in proportion to the distance apparently equal to that of the stars; and
yet it was only the trickery of diminutive films. It was a wholly new
invention, based on the laws of the Fata Morgana. Many of the people
present saw this spectacle for the first time and it filled them with
wonder and awe.
“What shall we not discover before we get through, we worms of the
earth!” cried Franka; “and how deep into the heavens even now all our
mechanical apparatus penetrate!”
“Apparatus, yes,” murmured Chlodwig; “but not our minds!”
“Don’t be ungrateful, Helmer,” said Franka, reproachfully. “Does not the
great success of your ‘Schwingen’ prove sufficiently that a wide circle
of minds already feel a yearning for the heights? If it were not so,
would you be so understood, so celebrated? Isn’t it true, Miss Toker,
that the English translation of Helmer’s poem has aroused the greatest
admiration in England and America?”
“Yes, I believe so; at least, papa says so. He is quite crazy over your
‘Schwingen.’ However, I haven’t read it. Papa thinks that you meant to
express in poetry exactly the same as he tries to express with his
Rose-Week ... but what that really means is a mystery to me.... I
believe he would like just such a man for his son-in-law ... but you
must not regard this as an offer of marriage, Mr. Helmer.... I shall
accept only an American ... and if it should chance to be a European,
then it must be at least a duke in the superlative degree—a grandduke or
an archduke.... Those titles please me, and especially the way those
grandees are addressed in German which, translated into English, would
mean ‘Your Transparency, Your Serene Transparency’ ... would not a man
appear like a bunch of Roentgen rays?... But now I must trot back to the
salon. Good-bye!”
Franka, smiling, looked at her as she went, and exclaimed: “What a dear
little goosie!”
In the white frame against the evening sky now appeared a magnificent
picture:—the Gods of Olympus. It looked as if the heaven had opened and
allowed mortals down below to see how the Immortals exist. To be sure,
they were only the immemorially known forms of human fancy, such as had
been seen to satiety in paintings and on the stage; but the vast space
and the gigantic size of the apparition, passing beyond all power of
comprehension, evoked admiration mingled with awe. Now, the Olympian
ones began to move: Hebe poured nectar into a cup which she presented to
Jupiter; Cupid shot an arrow which fell out of the frame—it might have
pierced one of the spectators down below; Venus, clothed in glittering
silvery veils, laid her arm around the War-God’s shoulder, and Juno
caressed her peacock as it stood with circling tail widespread. In a
half-minute all had disappeared. Then followed a picture from the
Catholic Heaven—the Sistine Madonna, lovely and motionless. Fantastic
landscapes followed, the like of which do not exist on earth, inhabited
by creatures such as have never been seen. It was as if the impenetrable
curtain, which is hung at a billion-mile distance over the secret
activities of the world of stars, had been suddenly withdrawn, giving
men a glimpse into the regions of Mars or of Saturn. To be sure, they
were only pictures due to the power of human imagination, which can
never attain the unknown realities, yet, appearing in the firmament,
they were like revelations from other worlds.
Franka put her hand on Helmer’s arm: “Ah, Brother Chlodwig!” she sighed,
shuddering.
He bent down to her: “What is it, Franka?” He asked this as gently as
one might inquire what troubled a trembling child, and with his
expressive hand he made a motion as if he were going to caress her
forehead—but he refrained.
“I know that it is only illusion—but these glances into unearthly,
infinite distances fill me with a weird, painful sense of loneliness, of
nothingness....”
“I know that...?”
“You do, Chlodwig? I thought, the higher your soul soars, the more at
home you felt.”
“The more reverent, perhaps,—but ‘at home’? Infinite space is so cold we
cannot build huts on the Milky Way”—he laid his hand on Franka’s which
still rested on his arm. “Do you know the Schubert song in which a
will-o’-the-wisp holds up before the lonely wanderer the realization of
his deepest yearning:—a warm house and in it a well-beloved heart?...”
“A well-beloved heart,” repeated Franka dreamily.
They remained for a while silent, looking into each other’s eyes. Then
Franka withdrew her hand and stood up: “We will return to the salon.”