ANOTHER LETTER FROM CHLODWIG HELMER
That night Helmer could not sleep. The experiences of the day had deeply
agitated him. First, the morning call on Franka. The feeling of panic
which she had so confidingly confessed to him, had seemed to transfer
itself to him. What if she should suffer discomfiture on that day, when,
so to speak, the whole world was directing its eyes on her? That would
embitter her whole career, and he felt that he was responsible for her
career.
The crises had been successfully passed; Franka had borne herself
gallantly and had won a striking success, but this had not lessened his
agitation and the success did not seem to him sufficient. It had not
shown itself in the eager adherence of enthusiasts, filled with
gratitude and devotion, but in the condescending applause of a curious
and well-amused theater audience. To him she was a priestess, and to the
whole people yonder she was a—diva. Had she not done a priest-like and
heroic act? Had she not sacrificed herself in order to offer to the
world a part of what appeared to her as truth and wisdom—only to give
others, not herself, a little more happiness? For herself, indeed, she
had treasures of happiness at her disposal—youth, beauty, wealth,
freedom. Everything stood open before her: a life in the great world,
with all its enjoyments of luxury and pleasure, a life of love at the
side of a man who worshiped her, the joys of motherhood, ... and all
this she had thrown over in order to devote herself wholly and entirely
to the duties and cares of an apostleship....
“Oh, my poor Franka, my noble, sweet....”
With these words, spoken aloud, he interrupted the course of his
thoughts. He was alarmed at the tender expression of his own voice—could
it be that he really was in love with her? At this question other
considerations occurred to him—circumstances which had mightily affected
him in the last few days: the offering of the violets ... and then,
after the address, just as he was about to go down into the hall to
speak with Franka, there stood the prince again at her side.... It had
caused a flaming agony to dart through his heart.... So he was jealous,
was he? It was not to be denied—he loved her!
And even as he confessed the soft impeachment, he realized it as a heavy
load of trouble, but at the same time so delightful, that not for the
world would he have been willing to get rid of it. And was it really a
new love; was it not rather one long kindled, which for years had been
smouldering and had now burst into flame? Was not possibly this old
sentiment the reason why in all these years, in spite of many more or
less transient love-affairs, he had never been able to let his heart go
completely? As a dramatic poet he had enjoyed many opportunities of
frequenting the theater behind the scenes and many an adventure had come
in his way. One of them was an affair which lasted two years. But it had
not brought ease to his heart; rather it had become a burden.
Fortunately it had been broken off gradually and without pain on either
side. For some time he had been quite free, and was able to say that he
had never been under the spell of a genuine passion. Always this or that
quality had not quite satisfied him in those by whom he was attracted;
always he had discovered that they lacked something; and the secret of
it was, that he compared them all with Franka Garlett; not one of them
came up to that ideal.
The following morning a letter was brought to Franka. She was sitting
again on her balcony and looking out over the forest. Her first thought
was, that the missive came from Victor Adolph, but a glance at the
handwriting dispelled this assumption—the letter was from Helmer. She
tore open the envelope and read:—
_Two o’clock in the morning._ It is in vain—I cannot sleep. Racing
pulse and whirling thoughts deprive me of all possibility of rest. Now
it occurs to me that I have the prescriptive right to address a letter
at rare intervals to a sister-soul with whom I may commune most
intimately.
I am making use of this right and I have sat down at my desk. It
stands by the open window and bright moonlight is streaming into the
room. Only this sheet of paper is illuminated by my shaded lamp—the
rest of the room is all bathed in soft, silvery blue. I had put on my
clothes to take a stroll in the garden and to cool my fever in the
moon-enchanted night air. But I can put before you something of the
overflow of my thoughts. You yourself are the center of these
thoughts. What has so disturbed me is the experience that I went
through to-day on account of you and because of you. And in this
emotion so much was revealed to my consciousness concerning you and
myself ... but I am going to write you here only of what concerns you,
what touches your life. I leave myself out of the question. It would
be very enticing now, when I am coming to you for refuge in this
moment of restlessness and loneliness, to make you the confidante of
my trouble,—for I have that,—but it is my own secret.
Now let me speak of you and your address. I had no opportunity of
talking with you about it. You disappeared in the hall; first you were
surrounded by the Sielenburg people and then you were accosted by the
prince. Shortly afterwards you retired, evidently exhausted by your
triumph. For it was a triumph in spite of the panic which tormented
you in the morning. You spoke with sovereign assurance, and said all
that was to be said. Indeed, you went beyond your accustomed
domain,—the education of women for an intellectual participation in
the questions of the day; you entered the domain of actual
feminism—for you pleaded for practical coöperation of women in
government and lawmaking. But such general and abstract considerations
do little toward the attainment of this end. The gradual conquest of
the whole will be accomplished only by practical workers in details,
doing practical things, here one and there one, thousands of them in
thousands of different places. And this development is already in full
swing, though it still lags far behind the ideal which you have
foreseen.
Yet, what am I driving at? Here I am speaking also of generalities
which do not interest me at this moment. What interests me now is
yourself, is your life. My conscience reproaches me that when you gave
me all your confidence, as to a brother in the spirit, I pointed out
to you this path where you are entirely forgetting yourself. I was the
one who suggested the word “Renunciation” as the countersign of that
path.
Yet I recall that I added: this full devotion to the cause would be
demanded only for a few years. These years are now past. Your duty, as
far as you could fulfill it, is fulfilled. With generous hands you
have scattered the seed of great ideas into the world of women. You
have called into existence the Garlett Academy, and lavished a large
part of your fortune on it—it is working on in your spirit. The
congregation of the “Frankistinnen” has been formed and is spreading.
It is no longer necessary for you to throw your whole self into the
work of the propaganda; it will go forward henceforth automatically.
Let your address of to-day be the last of your public addresses.
It will find an echo in a thousand places—it will be perpetuated in
the “Rose Annals”—it makes a brilliant finale. Laboriously and
courageously and persistently, you have put your shoulder to the wheel
to set it in motion;—now it is in full motion ... what is the use of
pushing it any more? Time will bring you other work; but there is no
reason for you to go out and seek work—you must think of living, you
must think of your own still fresh, joy-deserving life. You are here
also “to share in loving,” Franka. And now I come back to Prince
Victor Adolph. I believe he worships you. He is no ordinary man. I
have trustworthy information as to his worthiness. Do not do violence
to your heart if it beats for him.
Having reached this point, Franka dropped the sheet into her lap—she had
not expected this. The first words of the letter, “racing pulse and
whirling thoughts,” thoughts which complemented her picture—she would
sooner have been prepared for his appealing to her heart for himself and
not for another. Well, it was better so. In this way her “_Brother
Chlodwig_” was not lost to her.
She had no idea what it had cost him. At the very place where she ceased
reading, he had ceased writing. He had sprung to his feet, and, clasping
his head in both hands, had groaned aloud. He paced several times up and
down the room in his excitement. Then he leaned out of the window and
gazed toward the horizon which already betrayed a pallid premonition of
the early dawn. The moon was veiled in passing clouds and one or two
stars were twinkling. “One may not yearn to grasp the stars!” Have I not
often repeated this to myself? He was vexed with himself. This jealous
emotion seemed to him senseless, unworthy. He must and would crush it
down, and the very best way before him was to help Franka to incline to
the prince. And so he went on writing:—
I really believe that an alliance with this royal prince might make
you happy in several directions: first through merely loving—that
crown of life—why should you not make it yours? And secondly, if the
opportunity is given you, to work for your, for our, ideals (and in
this word “our” I include also the spirit of your father). Only think
what might be accomplished in this important, influential position.
How the young prince would be strengthened and inspired by you in his
bold, independent ideas. There is certainly no genuine happiness on
earth for the like of us, unless we continue to work for the great
objects which our longing eyes have beheld. We cannot, as long as we
live, cease our efforts. In the midst of every other kind of happiness
this work remains our chief desire, as it is our consolation in every
misfortune. In my own trouble—I confessed to you that I have trouble—I
am still with the half of my soul—the better half of my soul—at my
task. You have already fulfilled your task for the Rose-Week Festival.
Before me is still my reading in the presence of the whole world. I am
not—like Franka Garlett—used to public speaking; my tool is the pen.
So I look forward to this ordeal not without trembling, yet not
without pleasure. It is a splendid opportunity to pour out what fills
the soul to overflowing. I burn to be heard and understood. Not
because I flatter myself that I have something beautiful to say, but
something that may bring help. But how to find the right words?
The things that float before my mind are so dazzling and so new, while
the words that one has at one’s disposal are so banal and so flat. The
sublimest concepts, like goodness, freedom, right, have become dimmed
by so many editorials, committee speeches, and election proclamations,
that they have lost all their brilliancy—what is worse, all their
value. The lofty thoughts mined from the new time lie in bars, like
gold, but in order to bring them into circulation, one must first coin
them into new words, while we have only thin and worn coins to pass.
If we come to the modern man—I mean a man with broad philosophical and
æsthetic views—with these morality-dripping words (a morality which
has been amply preached but never practiced in all these thousands of
years), then it moves him like the admonition, “Be a good little boy,”
spoken to a grown-up man.
It is beginning to dawn—this is no metaphor: you know the old fault of
my style of letter-writing, but this time I have really had no other
meaning—it is beginning to grow light. In order to scare away the
torment of sleepless night hours, I have written till morning. In the
foliage-crowned trees awakens the twittering of birds. What is it that
they have to say to one another every day at waking and every evening
before they compose themselves to sleep?
Now I am going to shut my window, pull down the Venetian blinds, and
try to get a little rest. It has refreshed me writing to you. Perhaps
I may have a nap—perhaps even a dream....
CHLODWIG.
Franka and Helmer sat together as usual at luncheon. Franka had come in
a little late.
“Well,” said she, as she took her place, “did you have your dream?”
“Yes, I dreamed about you. I saw you standing on the platform again
and ...”
“And it was to be for the last time, was it?” interrupted Franka. “You
wrote me, didn’t you, because it would be easier than to say to me, by
word of mouth, during breakfast: ‘Miss Garlett, you spoke very
indifferently. You are no longer accomplishing your work—retire!’”
“Oh,” exclaimed Chlodwig, pained, “did you understand me _so_?”
“The principal thing I understood was that you were in a very melancholy
and excited frame of mind and came to me for comfort: that delights me.
And one thing more—you desire my happiness. But do you really think it
beckons in the direction you suppose? Two or three bunches of violets
are hardly to be regarded as an offer of marriage. Up to the present
time, I have not the slightest ground for supposing that Prince Victor
Adolph has ever thought of such a thing.”
“He has not intimated to you that he is in love with you?” This question
was in a jubilant tone.
“No, and if he should do so, do you know what ... what I ... well, I
confess, I am not quite certain myself.... Perhaps it would have been
better if you had not suggested such a thing ... you have kindled a
spark in my heart.”
Their dialogue, carried on in an undertone, was interrupted by Mr.
Toker, who from the other side of the table engaged Franka in
conversation.
After the luncheon was finished and the company had drifted into the
adjoining salons, Gwendoline took Franka’s arm.
“Oh, Miss Garlett,” said she in a voice trembling with emotion, “I must
thank you. You have no idea what an impression you made on me, you fill
me with admiration....”
Franka made the courteous deprecatory sign with her head with which we
are accustomed to receive flattering phrases.
“No, no, no!” cried the young American girl vehemently, “I should not be
so presumptuous, stupid thing that I am, to pay you mere compliments. I
wanted just to tell you what feelings you awakened in me ... not merely
agreeable feelings—for it is certainly not agreeable to be made ashamed
of one’s self, when one has hard things to say to one’s own face; as,
for example: ‘You are certainly an empty-headed creature, Gwen! You must
decidedly improve, my girl, if you want to rise again in my
estimation’....”
“And why did you speak so disrespectfully to Miss Toker?”
“Oh, you understand me perfectly. You know right well, when you address
young girls, that hitherto very, very few among them have ever thought
with you. I belong to the majority. I have always kept aloof from
serious things; for instance, I have not the slightest remembrance what
that clever Frenchman said yesterday—my attention was wholly diverted to
the various groups in the hall, for I had discovered several comical
people. When you began to speak, I was interested in the way the folds
of your gown fell—there was something Greek about it. Who knows, whether
I should have listened to your words at all, if you had not suddenly
addressed your speech directly to young girls. Then I had to listen to
what you had to say to me, and after that I did not lose another word. I
did not understand it all, nor can I remember it all, but so much I
know—I should like to be your pupil. Do teach me to think, show me my
place in the world, so that I may accomplish something, be of some
use.... You see, papa has always treated me as a child, and I have never
been interested in his plans: I never thought that there was anything in
them for us young people....”
“Oh,” cried Franka, “it is precisely the young and the youngest who are
called and who are capable of walking in new paths. For that reason we
all (I mean, we whose aspirations are directed to the future) look with
such hope to America, for there the whole land is so young....”
“And we Americans look so timidly and admiringly up to Europe, because
it is old and venerable. All we have, we have from you.”
“And you are going to repay us richly for that. For what is going to
ameliorate our future,—inventions, wealth, free institutions, peace,—all
that you will carry over to us. Mr. Toker is a messenger of that kind.”
“Oh, my dear father ... I fear I do not know him as I should.”
Gwendoline went on to explain that she had never lived very much in her
father’s society. In her childhood, she had been almost entirely in her
grandmother’s hands, as her mother had died when she was born; and then,
when six years ago the grandmother died, the child, then eleven, was
entrusted to a Swiss _Pensionat_, from which only the year before she
had returned to her own country. In this excellent _Pensionat_ she had
received the usual education of young ladies—that is to say, to take a
part rather in dancing than in thinking. She had got only one idea there
of the Woman Movement—that it was a far from elegant aberration of
high-strung females. What Franka had said about it was a revelation to
her. Now she felt she must and would accomplish something—Miss Garlett
must instruct and advise her further.
Franka now felt obliged to tear herself away from this interview. She
was expecting a caller. She kissed the eager young disciple, whose
attitude toward her filled her with joyous pride. “To-morrow we will
talk further about this, my dear girl; I must go now.”
She summoned Frau von Rockhaus and went with her to her rooms. Shortly
afterwards Prince Victor Adolph was announced. Franka went forward to
greet him. Frau Eleonore, who was sitting near the window, stood up and
curtseyed, but immediately resumed her seat, for the call did not
concern her.
Franka’s heart began to beat more quickly. “Helmer is to blame for
this,” said she to herself with vexation.
After the first interchange of greetings and after they had sat down the
prince said:—
“Permit me to enter _in medias res_ without delay, and ask you the
questions which I have on my mind.”
He did not speak loud. Frau von Rockhaus, who from her remote corner was
visible _de profil perdu_, could not hear what was said.
“Well, I am ready to listen,” said Franka, and raised her eyes to her
visitor.
Once more she realized that she had never seen a handsomer and more
elegant man than this young prince. Yet, in his attitude there was a
certain haughty, peculiarly unbending reserve—more noticeable if
possible than ever. It was as if something had annoyed him.
“I heard you yesterday for the second time, Miss Garlett. You spoke as
eloquently as you did the first time, perhaps even more so; but you
crossed over into another field where I could not well follow you.”
“How so? I still treat the same question.”
“But from a different standpoint. When I heard you in Germany, you
protested that you were not going to stand for the current aims of
feminism—the franchise, candidacy for all public offices, and the like;
that sort of thing you would leave to others. You would only urge that
women should cultivate their intellect sufficiently to interest
themselves in political and social life, so that by their influence they
might be capable of imparting something of feminine virtues into the
conduct of political and social affairs ... that is what I understood
you to say.”
“You understood quite correctly, Your Highness.”
“And suddenly yesterday you began to join in all the extreme demands of
the Women’s Rights party,—female voters, female members of
Parliament—how can I tell to what extent they would go ... no ... there
I am opposed. Perhaps I am reactionary, but I shudder at the mere
thought of seeing women—delicate, lovely women—dragged about in the
dusty battle-field.”
“Do you mean Parliaments? Parliaments need not be dusty and need not be
battle-fields, but places for work.”
“Why yes, you expect that all will be changed. But that is the very
thing I dread. There is so much that is fine, it would be a pity to
change it—in other words, to destroy it. As, for example, suppose one
were to cultivate nothing but vegetables instead of flowers. Of course,
it would be more useful. And the captivating types of women who are to
be found in our present state of civilization—to see them all
disappear—that would be, indeed, deplorable. And must every woman have a
calling? Wife, mother, sweetheart—are not those also callings?”
“There is no need of excluding others—just like husband, father, lover!”
“They are not to be compared. Oh, it has often been lamented that the
world is robbed of its gods—I tremble at the thought that it may be
robbed of its feminine elements. I question whether this whole movement
for equality—because it is contrary to nature—is not to be regarded as a
temporary aberration, now and again doing harm and destined to
disappear. Please give me your ideas about this.”
Franka interrupted him with an impatient movement of her hand. The trend
of the conversation affected her unpleasantly. “Excuse me, Your
Highness, I cannot give you a second lecture! I should not convert you,
for your objection does not rest on grounds of reason, but is rather
instinctive and therefore especially vehement. Nor have I the wish to
convert you. My specialty, as you yourself have remarked, is certainly
not that of the militant feminist. It is remarkable, what an effect my
yesterday’s address has produced: it moved a good friend to advise me to
give up the whole thing—while it made the brilliant daughter of the
house my enthusiastic disciple; and it entirely revolted you, Your
Highness.”
Victor Adolph started: “Good Heavens, how can you use such a
word—revolt! Your address enchanted me, as your whole being enchants me,
but the theme—yes, you are quite right—aroused an instinctive antipathy.
And it would have been pleasant to me if you had been willing to explain
your meaning, yet this expectation was presumptuous. Do not be angry
with me.”
He rose and took his leave. Franka did not attempt to detain him.