A LUNCHEON PARTY
A small company of hotel guests who had been lunching together were
sitting at their black coffee in a large special salon. It was the first
day of the second Rose-Week, and the opening festival was to take place
that evening. The conversation of the gay little party, which consisted
of two ladies and four gentlemen, turned on the programme of the
exercises.
One of the ladies was a Russian countess, a woman no longer young,—she
must have been more than forty,—but still handsome and very elegant; she
was the hostess at the luncheon. The other lady was a young widow,
Annette Felsen, the cousin and companion of the countess; very lively,
gay, and coquettish. The gentlemen were an elderly Frenchman, easily
recognized as a former officer; a tall dark-eyed Italian, also past his
first youth, for his wavy black hair was shot through with many silver
threads. His name was Marchese Romeo Rinotti—a name which had a good
repute in the political world and played a prominent part in the
ministerial council of the kingdom. The two other gentlemen were Bruning
and Regenburg.
The conversation ran now in French, now in German. Bruning had just been
reading from the paper the names of Toker’s guests, and then remarked
that Chlodwig Helmer, who on the following day was to read from his poem
“Schwingen,” was a friend of his.
“Ah,” cried the Countess Vera, “that is interesting—you must introduce
him to us—I dote on poets ... not so much as on musicians, though. I
confess frankly that what attracts me most in the whole programme is ‘Le
Chant des Roses.’ This young Pole is simply divine ... though I don’t
like the Poles, because they hate us. But what kind of a man is your
friend?”
“Oh, a fine fellow, only somewhat high-strung. I also know Fräulein
Garlett. She, too, comes from my country. I should like to see these two
make a match; they are admirably suited to each other: neither is quite
normal and she is extremely rich. I should like to see my friend marry
her.”
“But isn’t this girl an agitator for the emancipation of women?” asked
the old Frenchman, Baron Gaston de la Rochère? “One does not marry such
a person.”
Madame Annette Felsen laughed: “Why, but you are quite _vieux jeu_, my
dear Baron, quite _ancien régime_....”
The baron straightened himself up. “Yes, I flatter myself.... In this
degenerating world there certainly ought to be a few people who stand by
the old principles, the old true ideals. I am very anxious to know what
doctrines the ladies and gentlemen of the Rose Order are going to
preach. They will scarcely develop in a fitting way the highest concept
there is: that of patriotism—since they belong to the most diversified
countries, often opposed and unfriendly to one another; and then tact
will forbid their expressing openly their patriotic wishes. By the whole
make-up of the programme and by many suspicious names among the
participants—for example, I would never have sent here as a
representative of France the Frenchman who is going to speak—by the
various names, I believe there is danger that revolutionary ideas will
be put forward more than is desirable. Indeed, the old order and the
sacred traditions are so shaken that only a good war could possibly set
things straight again. Then we should have the chance to restore to the
throne of France a monarch appointed by God, one who would once for all
drive out the radical and free-masonic rabble which at the present time
puts our country to shame. And even if there were no one of royal blood,
still if there were a victorious soldier—a war-hero....”
Countess Vera uttered a little shriek. “Do not speak of war, mon
colonel ... it is now many years ago ... but the Manchurian campaign
with all its consequences still trembles in all my nerves.... Didn’t the
peasants burn my castle? The war itself would not have been anything ...
that is as God wills; but the terrible revolution afterwards ... and
that would break out again after another war ... there are so many
nihilists among us. It was, indeed, a piece of good luck that they could
choke off the revolution—the saints helped once more, and genuine
Russians remained faithful to the Tsar, who ought never to have granted
a constitution....”
“Vera, Vera,” interrupted Madame Annette, “do not talk about politics.
There, please light a cigarette.... I will take one, too, and if
politics is to be talked about, then will you do the talking, Marchese!
you certainly ought to understand the subject, you who are the diplomat,
the prominent statesman, the Italian Bismarck!”
The marchese offered the ladies a light. “A diplomat,” said he, “should
rather be silent than speak, but I can comfort the colonel by saying
that the prospects for a war in Europe are growing brighter and
brighter. Perhaps he will see the beautiful times of the _ancien régime_
return. As far as I am concerned, my yearning to bring back the past
goes still farther back. The only true, beautiful, fiery, proud life was
at the time of the Renaissance. Life was not regarded, men took no care
of it, but they lived intensely.... Those adventures, those riotous
magnificences of living and of art, that wild existence, that lordly
power of unscrupulousness!...”
He had worked himself into a passion of eloquence, and at his final
words an almost Satanic smile, which showed his white teeth, flickered
around his mouth. Annette looked at him in amazement:—
“You would have made a splendid _condottiere_, signor. What do _you_
say, Herr Regenburg?”
The famous sportsman had scarcely understood; he was not very fluent in
French, but now that he was called upon to give his opinion, he had to
say something, whether well or ill. He tittered rather idiotically.
“Why, yes, my dear lady, it is fine to have a bit of a row; we must have
some slashing about.... But you are quite right, Marchese, and so are
you, Colonel—the old days ought to come back again.”
He waved his liqueur-glass and emptied it at one gulp....
“Old times do not return,” said Bruning; “neither the times of Napoleon,
nor those of the Sun-King, nor those of the Medici. But whoever delights
in unscrupulousness and lack of consideration has no need to mourn over
the present: attacking and oppressing, in order to attain power or to
preserve it, is still in sway, even though in a different manner, and
will probably always continue, for the emblems of worldly success remain
claws and teeth—or at least elbows.”
A hotel valet came in and handed Bruning a card.
“Ah, my friend Helmer,” said he, rising. “Allow me, ladies and
gentlemen, to leave you; I must receive him.”
“Is that the poet—the author of ‘Schwingen’?” asked Countess Vera.
“Please ask him to come here; we should all be so pleased to meet him.”
“If you permit it”; and, turning to the servant: “Show the gentleman
in.”
Bruning went to meet Helmer at the door: “’Twas good of you to look me
up. You find me in a little company who are eager to make your
acquaintance. Allow me to present you: my fellow-countryman and
schoolmate, the boldest aviator of the present....”
Helmer shook his head: “I have never been in an airship in my life.”
“But you fly up into the bluest heights on the wings of your verse.”
“Indeed; I had always heard only of verse-feet.”
Bruning continued his introductions: “The Countess Vera Petrovna
Solnikova, of Petersburg, who has had the kindness to invite us to a
feast of Lucullus; Madame Felsen, from Reval; Baron Gaston de la
Rochère, from Bretagne; His Excellency, Marchese Rinotti, from Rome, the
coming director of the destinies of Italy; and this is Herr Regenburg,
the well-known Viennese sportsman. And now, tell us—does the
Rose-Spectacle start off to-day?”
The Countess Vera motioned Helmer to sit down and offered him a cup of
coffee, which he accepted.
“Yes,” said she; “tell us how it is all planned—the programme is so
indefinite. Shall we hear you to-day?”
“No, not to-day. To-day a great man is going to speak,”—and he mentioned
the name of the French author,—“and there are to be others. Yet I must
not tell you. It is characteristic of Mr. Toker’s programme, that no
programme is announced. If the public should know in advance on which
day this or that person was to speak and know what would be the subject,
then they would be able to pick and choose, and Mr. Toker wants all to
be heard by all. It is like a salon, where the guests do not know what
sort of artistic offerings are to be presented. It is all a surprise.”
“If I can only succeed in hearing one of that divine Polish master’s
compositions, than I shall be rewarded for having made the journey to
Lucerne,” said the countess, with a sentimental upward glance of her
eyes. “And you, Annette, you are especially crazy over Mlle. Garlett,
the famous feminist, aren’t you?”
“Yes, that I am, although I do not care about women’s rights, but I have
heard so much about that lady....”
“Fräulein Garlett is no ‘_Feminist_,’” interrupted Helmer eagerly, “and
she does not preach emancipation. She is not so desirous of winning
rights for women as of doing away with ancient prerogatives, which they
possess to the injury of all.”
“How so? what prerogatives?” asked the others.
“Of being idle; of having an empty brain; of disclaiming all care for
the common weal; of thinking themselves absolved from the bother of
logical thought ... and so of robbing humanity of half its intellectual
working power.”
“I don’t understand you,” said Annette.
“Oh, I understand!” exclaimed M. de la Rochère. “Women are to mix in
politics. How advantageous that is has been shown by the _tricoteuses_
around the guillotine and the _pétroleuses_ during the Commune.... Woman
is a _créature d’amour_.... Wife, mistress, odalisque ... that is our
French ideal!”
“In Germany, also, a feminine ideal has been established,” remarked
Bruning; “that of three capital K’s:—_Kirche_, _Kinder_, _Küche_—church,
children, kitchen.”
The Italian Minister turned the conversation: “Do you know, Herr Helmer,
two years ago, when I was passing through Berlin, I attended the
première of your last drama and was delighted at its great success. I
hope the piece is to be given soon on the Italian stage.”
“Indeed, Your Excellency, that has actually been arranged for—it is to
be presented next winter at Milan.”
“Unless in the mean time,” said Bruning, laughing, “the great European
war should break out which the signor marchese predicts.”
Helmer shrugged his shoulders. “Oh, yes, that famous unavoidable
European war of the future, which has been announced for many long
years, but which nevertheless, so far, has been warded off.”
“So you still think it avoidable, do you?” asked the Countess Vera.
“I consider it impossible. Unless Europe takes up with a suicidal
policy.”
Bruning tapped Helmer on the shoulder: “This shows what an incorrigible
idealist you are—deaf and blind to the coarse realities of life. You
look on men as angels, while in reality they are beasts.”
Helmer impatiently shook Bruning’s hand from his shoulder: “Present
company excepted, it is to be hoped,” said he. “But you know that I will
not have a controversy with you.”
The sportsman wanted to smooth things over. “It is to be hoped that Herr
Helmer is right—for if a war were to break out, all securities would go
down seriously. But still, if it should happen, it would be a wholesome
letting of blood. And who can prevent the decrees of history?”
“Oh, history, history,” exclaimed Helmer, in a tone of vexation. “Does
history make us or do we make history? If you put yourself before the
mirror and make up faces, can one say, when there is an ugly reflection,
‘who can prevent the grimaces of the mirror’?”
“There is no use discussing,” said the marchese. “On general grounds it
seems to me, my dear poet, that you do not have a very sound
comprehension of affairs here below. You soar up into a world of thought
and do not see what positive facts bring. You do not know what seething
and fermentation are going on in the lower regions of political and
social life; how friction and tension are increasing, and how
ultimately—and very soon, too,—there must be an explosion.”
“In other words, you consider me blind, Your Excellency? Of course, I
know right well that there is seething and fermentation. It certainly
cannot continue as it is now; a mighty change—what you call an
explosion—is before us,—I agree to that. We have entered upon the age of
the air, the age of the heights. The depths are to be left behind. All
that is low is to be conquered. Not by forcible destruction—but it will
disappear, will sink away.... Have you ever made a voyage in an airship
and gone up high, Your Excellency? If you have, you found that it was
not so much a mounting into the upper regions as it was a sinking away
of what was below. I know of things which are in preparation, which are
unknown to you and which are to be revealed during our Rose-Week. In our
midst sojourns an inventor, a conqueror ... yet I must not betray
secrets.” He stood up. “I must be going. I hope I shall see you all this
evening at our opening session.”