CHLODWIG HELMER’S LECTURE: THE CONQUEST OF THE AIR
On the fourth day of the Rose-Week, the auditorium was as usual filled
to the last seat. At the right, on the front of the platform, a kind of
proscenium-box had been set up, designed for the special guests who had
signified their intention of being present,—the King of Italy and the
President of the French Republic. Besides these two chief executives,
there were several other members of the ruling families of Europe in the
hall, but they were mingled with the other auditors. On the stage, the
speaker’s desk was placed in the center, but pushed somewhat to the
rear, and in the background sat as usual Mr. Toker, his daughter, and a
number of his distinguished guests. Some of them, however, had preferred
to listen to the exercises from the body of the house.
It was still ten minutes before the hour set for the commencement, but
the hall was already packed; only the King and the President had not as
yet appeared. Lively conversation buzzed through the place. Persons who
naturally belonged together sat in little groups: thus, for example, the
two widows, Countess Solnikova and Frau Annette Felsen, accompanied by
several gentlemen, among them Marchese Rinotti and Baron de la Rochère,
as if they were in their own salon; the Countess Schollendorf,
Albertine, Coriolan, and Malhof formed a little Austrian colony, to
which the well-known sportsman also joined himself. Franka Garlett with
her companion sat in the background of a small box, just out of sight of
the public.
Franka’s excitement was great. She had never heard Helmer speak in
public—it was practically his first public address, and she trembled a
little for him.
The Sielenburgers had not taken their departure after all. It had
happened that the sleeping-coupé tickets procured were meant for the
following day and consequently the involuntarily prolonged sojourn
allowed them the opportunity of hearing Helmer’s address. The Countess
Schollendorf was gazing about through her opera-glass. Suddenly she
cried out with a startled expression: “For God’s sake, there in the
third sofa in front—isn’t that the Archduke...?”
“Sh!” interrupted the sportsman. “Don’t utter the name aloud; it is
certainly he, but he does not want to be recognized.”
“Still, perhaps we are mistaken,” said the Countess; “our imperial
family has not much taste for such American extravagances.”
“But really, it _is_ the Archduke; I cannot be mistaken, for he bought a
horse of me once and closed the bargain himself. Besides, he is said to
be a very enlightened prince.”
Coriolan flared up: “What do you call ‘enlightened’? That is a
suspicious word.... Thank God, our court is nothing of the sort.”
The countess had now directed her glass toward the platform. “Franka is
not sitting up there this time ... but that Helmer! Who would have
thought that I should have seen Eduard’s secretary in this way again! It
is said that he is going to give an address. I am curious.”
“I am not,” muttered the cousin.
“You are an unendurable man, Coriolan,” remarked Albertine suavely.
“We need not be vexed, my worthy friends,” observed Baron Malhof at this
moment, taking a part in the conversation, after having vainly looked
round to find Franka. “One must never be vexed; certainly not while on a
pleasure journey. One ought thankfully to get from it all the possible
satisfaction that may be offered. Domestic cares, local prejudices, have
been left far behind. One drinks in all the delight of the ‘now,’ of the
unfamiliar, of the unusual. And especially here in this festal hall,
where such a brilliant company is assembled, where it smells so
fragrant,—I would wager that the ventilator distributes atomized
rosewater,—where sweet music is playing, where beautiful women are to be
seen, and where one can stare at two living rulers of great States, and
where there is to be great oratory in various tongues of Babel about the
‘lofty flights of human thought.’... If this is not a place of
amusement, what is it, I’d like to know? Do you see, in my opinion life
is a storehouse, filled full of joyance and annoyance, and all wisdom
consists in getting out of that storehouse all possible joy and avoiding
everything that can possibly annoy....”
A stir went through the audience. The President of the French Republic
and the King of Italy had entered their box. Mr. Toker had ushered them
in, and he remained for a few moments standing in the back of the box in
order, as could be plainly seen, to give his illustrious guests some
information about his likewise illustrious house-guests; for his eyes,
as well as those of the two rulers, moved, during the conversation, from
one to another of the selected circle filling the background of the
platform.
Now Mr. Toker went back to his place and gave the signal to begin.
For the introduction, a second performance was given of the
Rose-Quintette which on the first day had afforded such enjoyment; again
it exerted the same charm and aroused the whole audience to the utmost
enthusiasm. The King from the land of music set the example, and the
applause throughout the auditorium rose into a perfect storm. Vera’s
eyes were filled with tears of delight. The Rose-Quintette was a genuine
affront to that ultra-modern school of those who pose as scorners of
melody; they did not, indeed, hiss, but they exchanged significant
glances and bitterly ironical smiles.
After the applause had subsided, the great Italian tragédienne came
forth and recited Hero’s lament over the body of Leander, a
soul-stirring monologue from the first work of a Roman poet as yet
comparatively unknown. It was a decidedly long while after she had
finished, before the applause began: people were too deeply moved to
express their gratification instantly. Genuine tears trembled on the
eyelashes of the great artist, and in the audience many cheeks were wet.
Who has never stood by the bier of one dearly beloved, and has not gazed
down into an abyss of grief so profound that the heart is penetrated by
the terror of eternity?
Now followed one of those ten-minute pauses during which the auditorium
changed into a salon. Some of the guests left their places; calls were
paid; there was promenading up and down the lobbies. The master of the
house stepped into the box where sat the two exalted rulers in order to
explain to them the meaning of the intermission; they in turn went out
on the platform and allowed the various celebrities to be presented to
them. The King greeted the actress as an old acquaintance, shook hands
with her, and talked with her for some time. Then he greeted his other
fellow-countryman, the great inventor, with equal heartiness. To be
proud of one’s king and to feel for him a genuine affection, is a
widespread sentiment in monarchical countries; but there is also very
frequently in royal personages a feeling of pride and of gratitude for
those who as artists or otherwise wear the crown of glory of their
country, and this feeling might be called kings’ loyalty. For centuries
monarchs have showed this loyalty in the form of gratitude to the heads
of the great noble families, especially for the leaders of armed forces
on land and sea; but of late they have begun to realize that the fame of
a country is borne over wider reaches of space and time by the names of
its intellectual great men than by the names of its aristocrats and
soldiers.
The ringing of a bell announced the resumption of the exercises, and an
expectant silence reigned throughout the hall. John Toker and Chlodwig
Helmer stepped out to the speaker’s desk. The American began in
English:—
“Your Majesty! Mr. President! Ladies and gentlemen! I have the pleasure
of introducing to you as the speaker of the evening—I might almost say
the speaker of the week—Herr Helmer, of Vienna, the author of the poem
‘Schwingen’ which quickly became famous. Not that I have any desire to
place his deserts higher than those of the other illustrious members of
the Rose Order—but because the theme which he is about to treat is the
fundamental theme on which our whole plan of action is arranged: the
conquest of the upper regions—Herr Helmer, you have the floor.”
And he stepped back to his place in the circle. As he took his seat some
one whispered to him: “That was not very democratic of you, Mr. Toker,
when in your introduction you apostrophized the two rulers with their
titles!”
“Please do not confuse democracy with incivility, as is so often done.
It is exactly what they are—rulers. To every one his due.”
The fault-finder remarked still further: “The two rulers certainly do
not understand German and they will be mightily bored with Herr Helmer’s
address.”
“But they do understand German, as I happen to know. Besides, the French
translation of the gist of the address has been printed and is in their
hands.”
In the mean time Helmer had taken his place at one side of the desk,
letting his hand rest on it and surveying the audience. First of all, he
looked for Franka. At last he caught sight of her in the corner of her
box. He gave her a mute greeting. At that instant Prince Victor Adolph
and General Orell entered her box. Franka shook hands with them, but put
her finger to her lips, as a sign that they must not speak; then she
turned toward the platform. Her heart was beating wildly. She was as
deeply agitated as on the evening of her own début. Victor Adolph took
his seat behind her.
Helmer made a slight inclination toward the two rulers; then turned to
the audience:—
“Fellow-men! The meaning of this address requires an explanation: I am
conscious that I am speaking not merely to the small assembly of
prominent men and women in this place, but to the world outside. I know
that what I am about to say—whether well or ill—will be repeated in
type, on human lips, on phonographs, in scientific reviews, in popular
assemblies, in the homes of workingmen, in university halls, in all the
nooks and corners of the whole civilized world; that it is therefore
rightfully addressed to my fellow-men; and what is more: the object
itself touches every one personally, no matter to what rank or what land
he may belong. Fellow-men, this matter concerns you all alike. _Tua res
agitur_—Humanity! One of the greatest hours of your destiny has struck!”
Franka drew a breath of relief. The speaker’s voice rang out clear and
full, and at the same time a restrained fire could be felt under his
words, spoken so calmly and with such assurance. Verily, it was the same
fire as had inspired her, when he delivered into her hands the shield
and spear—_Hojo-to-ho_—the cry of the Valkyrie!
She turned round to Victor Adolph, who must have understood the mute
question in her eyes—“He speaks well, doesn’t he?”—for he nodded
affirmatively.
In a somewhat altered tone Helmer went on:—
“‘Alas! corporeal pinions do not so easily correspond to the pinions of
the Intellect,’ are the words in Goethe’s ‘Faust.’... The opposite is
true. Corporeal pinions we already have, but the spiritual wings have
not as yet been found to correspond. Obedient to the will of man, the
flying ship soars a thousand metres into the air, but the will itself
remains in the depths. High and free, in beautiful premeditated curves,
the artfully constructed pinions drive through the pure ether, while far
below, enchained, remains the intellect groveling in the dust. By a
marvel of technique, the gates into a new age have been boldly forced,
but nobody seems to perceive this. The marvel is now only a few years
old. During the first week or ten days, tumultuous jubilation, universal
astonishment:—‘At last the millennial dream comes true!’ ‘How vast is
human genius!’ But after a short while everything goes on as before. No
trace of the new age. One further means of locomotion, a new article of
commerce, a fresh sport and opportunity for laying wagers, one more
childish toy, one weapon more, that is all!
“All respect for so-called human genius, but as far as concerns human
imagination—it displays a pitiful feebleness. It ventures a few leaps
into the air—a metre or two, like the first flying-machines—models as
yet unprovided with motors; but forthwith it sinks back again to the
ground. A door into the future forced open: whether from behind it, a
golden radiance is to stream, or gloomy clouds are to threaten, people
do not see—they have no desire to see. They shrug their shoulders, put
on an air of sound common sense, and deny all discussion of future
possibilities and revolutions. The matter is left to specialists, and no
one any longer takes any interest in it, save as it may affect one’s
private business or one’s private satisfaction.
“Above all, the military authorities always take possession of every new
invention and it gets specialized into merely technical limits. Any
possibility of its use other than for future wars is not taken into
consideration, and hence, the more universal points of view, the
indirect consequences, are put aside and only the nearest-lying
applications are discussed.
“Shortly before the invention of dirigible airships and flying-machines,
armies employed captive balloons and balloons driven before the wind;
even then there were aeronautic troops—of course nothing more natural
than that these should be entrusted as suitable experts with the
introduction and maneuvering of the new air-vehicles. This was regarded
in military circles as nothing revolutionary; it was simply a small
improvement which might be made useful in connection with the existent
system of tactics—that is to say, for instance, in reconnaissances. As a
weapon also, the thing might come into use, and experiments were,
indeed, made in this direction; but that was relegated to the dim future
and would never attain any great effective significance, for its
certainty of aim was of the very slightest, its radius of efficacy very
limited, and by means of perpendicular guns the attack might be easily
warded off:—such was the style of appeasement with which the suggestion
of adding fleets of airships to the other effective forces was set forth
and any wider outlook into the possibilities of the new acquisition was
not admitted by government circles. Whenever practical necessity
demanded such experiments in actual warfare, why, then they might be
made, but it was useless to indulge in fanciful dreams of the future....
And the specialists continued to occupy themselves with present-day
tasks, without abandoning the old ways;—as to the future, let it take
care of itself.
“At bottom, indeed, it is not the business of various callings, making
use of any new discovery, to investigate it in all its aspects; nay,
this would even be too much to expect from the inventors themselves.
Does the aviator understand very much about the scope of his invention?
Occasionally and exceptionally he does, of course—but not because he is
an aviator. As such he is a technician or an acrobat. Or, if he wants to
make a show of ideal objects, he may be a patriot, and offers his
apparatus to the ministry of war. He has no inkling of the fact that he
has opened the way into a new epoch in which new conditions of life are
to produce a new humanity.
“What these new conditions of life may be, many, indeed, of our
clear-sighted contemporaries have already recognized, but it has not as
yet penetrated into the common consciousness. On this subject I should
like to say something to my fellow-men from the far-echoing tribune on
which I stand, and especially to tell them about the mighty alternative
that has so suddenly been brought before our race.”
Chlodwig paused. He seemed to be collecting his thoughts for a moment or
two. This interval the public utilized for observations and the exchange
of views.
Coriolan muttered: “Some such rubbish as that about flying I remember he
put forth when he was at the Sielenburg.”
Countess Adele came to the speaker’s defense: “He talks right fluently.”
“I am curious, indeed,” said Prince Victor Adolph to Franka. “Have you
any idea what he is aiming at?”
“Certainly, I know Herr Helmer’s line of thought. He has been my
instructor.”
“Your instructor?... You have a high opinion of him?”
“Indeed I have.”
The group to which the two Russian widows belonged had not been
listening very attentively. Annette Felsen and Minister Rinotti were
sitting close together and a scarf falling from Annette’s shoulder had
arranged itself so conveniently that under its protection their hands
could touch. Perhaps this electric contact was too powerful to allow any
other to connect the speaker and these two. M. de la Rochère understood
not a word of German, and so any criticism that he might be moved to
utter concerned only externalities; but it was a favorable criticism:—
“The man has a fine voice and such intelligent hands! Have you noticed
how he pressed the ends of his fingers on the top of the table,—as
firmly and vibratingly as if he were table-tipping,—while with his other
hand he made such eloquent and gracefully sweeping gestures that one
might actually follow the drift of his discourse:—he was evidently
speaking of the air in which he drew curves as elegant as those of
Latham or Blériot.”
Helmer now proceeded with his address:—
“The making of fire by artificial means and the invention of speech were
the first stages in our progress from animal to man. Articulate man
belongs, at all events, to another species than did his dumb ancestor.
What kind of a species flying man is to represent, only the scientists
of the coming centuries will be able to decide. To-day I would merely
call your attention to the conditions of social life, in which we can,
even now, predict a change. There is, for example, the whole protective
system of society, which might be designated as the ‘lateral
system,’—for walls, hedges, gratings, shut us off on the sides,—but this
now has lost its advantage. Only the places that are covered with a roof
are entirely protected, yet we cannot build roofs over all gardens and
all stretches of land. There are no more islands either, if by that term
we designate a territory isolated by its coast-defenses and by its
fleet. Since the day when Blériot sailed over the British Channel, Great
Britain ceased to be an island. Like the concept ‘island,’ by means of
aviation will also disappear the custom-house of the frontier ... aye,
the frontiers themselves.
“Let us pause for a moment and consider that totality of things which
bears the name of war: What modification will be likely to ensue in this
domain by these new acquisitions? The militarists are quickly ready with
their answer: ‘War will simply be carried on simultaneously in the air.’
But the business is not so simple as on the earth and on the water. All
the methods of war, we might say, all the rules of the game, are based
on the following hypothesis: the two opponents go forth against each
other to the borders, try to cross them, try especially to prevent the
enemy from crossing them; try to win and to command positions; to march,
if possible, against the capital, and if they succeed, then they dictate
terms of peace. In order to make this game more difficult, obstacles are
erected in time of peace, forts are built along the borders and the soil
is undermined; the farther one penetrates into the country, more and
more fortifications are found, which must be captured one after the
other by the invading army; and, moreover, every village, every
farmstead where the belligerents might meet, is made into a stronghold.
The game can be supported by sea, when the fleets approach the coast,
which must be made more difficult to reach by means of fortifications
and submarine mines.
“And now comes the third military arm—that of aviation. For this, the
crossing of boundaries is child’s play. Fortifications would no longer
be impediments; not merely that they could be blown up by a couple of
pyroxin bombs;—they would be simply a negligible quantity. These
artificial constructions, with their trenches and walls and casements,
have also ceased to be defenses, just as the islands have ceased to be
islands. Headquarters, hitherto the safest places, most protected by
distance, places where the maps of the country used to be studied, and
serving as the center from which the troops were directed, are now the
most exposed; for an enemy’s flyer would make it his chief object to
fling his explosives down on that particular spot. All the most modern
methods of fighting, the concealment behind high-piled earthworks, are
henceforth without object; the approach of great army corps offers these
air-skirmishers the most favorable circle of trajectory to be
imagined—but who will there be to endure this consciousness in addition
to all the other hardships of the march? Still more vulnerable to attack
from above would be every munition-train.
“The cavalry, which in modern warfare is employed only for
recognizances, has become a mere article of luxury through the dirigible
balloon, the usefulness of which in the task of spying out the country
has been from the very beginning appreciated as its most brilliant
service; but the cavalry, when the regiments ride in close order, would
offer a fine mark for the troops of the air. But while all the attempts
would be made on the ground with the object of penetrating the hostile
country, the aerial troops of both armies would already have flown over
both capital cities and would be turning them into smoking heaps of
ruins. Likewise, a dirigible could in the dead of night glide over the
fleet of twenty-five-thousand-ton ships arrayed in battle order, and
annihilate it. High in boundless, unobstructed space there is no
definite theater of war, no commanding position; consequently the
decision of the campaign cannot be transferred into the air. Aerial
machines of murder will not march up side by side in line, but each
single one will work from up above downward; up above, there is nothing
to conquer and nothing to annihilate.
“If now, under these newly created conditions, nations go forth to fight
each other as before, it will be just as if two chessplayers should sit
down at the board and should say: ‘We will allow the old rules to
prevail; the pawn shall be just as valueless; the Knight shall make his
jumps; Rook and Queen shall preserve their great power; the King shall
have the privilege of “castling”; but we will add a new rule: either of
us may throw something on the board from above and upset all the
chessmen!’ A beautiful game—that would be—which would fail to please the
chessplayers!”
He then added, as if in a parenthesis: “The chessmen fail to be pleased
anyhow.”
Some sounds of dissatisfaction were heard in the auditorium. The
military men present were expressing their disagreement. “If only
civilians would not talk about things of which they haven’t the faintest
notion,” remarked a retired colonel to his neighbor.
General Orell had demurred the most indignantly: “All nonsense!”
“I don’t find it so,” replied Victor Adolph.
But no great time was allowed for exchanging opinions, for Helmer now
proceeded:—
“The opponents of war—and such I find to-day even in the most
influential social positions”—he bowed toward the royal box—“the
opponents of war might congratulate themselves that such a
war-destroying element has entered into the very apparatus of war; but
the chances are that the experiment would bring about a catastrophe
involving not the destruction of war, but rather the destruction of
civilization.
“In a book, which is the work of a prophet and of a forewarner, H. G.
Wells, whose powerful imagination never leaves the solid ground of
logic, there is a description of what must become of the present world
if once the rain of fire should pour down upon it from out the clouds.
Aye, ‘the conquest of the air’—we have little cause for rejoicing over
it—conceals the most awful perils.
“And one thing more: What will henceforth be the sense of the term
‘sentinel’? Hitherto, those that were threatened could feel a certain
degree of security, by surrounding themselves with a bodyguard; by
keeping all the doors and entrances to their palaces and gardens closely
watched, night and day; by stationing armed hedges on the right and
left, when they went out into the streets; or, if they traveled, by
protecting the railway track through its whole length by lanes of
soldiers and police; but what will all this avail against assassination
from above?
“And altogether: the execution of every act of hatred or revenge will be
greatly facilitated and its discovery made more difficult; no police
stations can be erected in the upper air, no police dogs could follow
the trail; what yesterday was called ‘flight’—then a very difficult and
dangerous undertaking—can to-day be taken as a pleasure trip!
“How could one find any traces in the heights above? The aeronautic
Sherlock Holmes will offer a new and as yet unexploited subject for
detective stories. A winged _gendarmerie_ will first have to be
organized; but a great obstacle stands in the way of patrolling space:
not only is there the stretch from north to south and from east to west,
but also zenithward. The desired point will no longer be crossed only by
two lines, but by three. All this must be faced. If really man is a wolf
to his fellowman and is bound to remain so, then our enemy, the wolf, by
means of our new achievements has got a new and tremendous accretion of
strength.”
Helmer made a brief pause. A slight feeling of uneasiness had taken
possession of his audience.... What the man was predicting did not seem
so rosy! But Helmer passed his hand over his forehead, as if he would
drive away a swarm of annoying visions, and then he went on in a louder
voice:—
“I do not stand here as a prophet of misfortune. I see the evil, but I
also see the cure for it. If new conditions of life are brought forward,
if the world around us undergoes changes, then our mode of life must be
made to conform to them; for what does not conform goes to destruction.
Nature herself accomplishes this process of adaptation by dooming to
destruction those who are incapable of conforming. At the present stage
of human development, however, we do not need to leave this process to
Nature alone: we have reason, we have knowledge, and we have experience:
we ourselves can take the work of transformation into our own hands!
Nature works slowly and works relentlessly; we can hasten her work, and
we can avoid those harsh and pitiless means which Nature employs to bend
us under the law of adaptation. So now, we are capable of recognizing
the new conditions, the new needs, that grow out of the human conquest
of the air. We can estimate what of the old contrivances, of the old
forms of thinking, cannot be brought over to the new dawning epoch; we
can mentally construct the conditions and principles which might prevail
in the altered circumstances; we can strive and we can bring it about,
that the necessary conformation shall take place without its involving
the method of Nature—‘The destruction of whatever resists.’
“And the formula of the needed action is provided for us by the new
acquisition itself: We are already able physically to soar up into the
heights—we must do the same thing morally. We must learn to hold
dominion over the realm of High Thinking.
“For thousands of years mankind has been dreaming of the possibility of
learning to fly. It has so often tried in vain that at last it came to
the conclusion that it was impossible. And yet it has been proved to be
possible.
“In the same way, and almost even more timidly, mankind has behaved
toward those dreams which attributed to human souls the capacity of
applying to the intercourse of nations the moral injunctions that have
been laid down as law for the behavior of individuals, and of renouncing
violence in all its forms. This has been called Utopia.... ‘Man is
essentially a wild beast’—they say: ‘only by force can he be tamed, only
by force can he be held under restraint, and force has always conducted
the fate of nations.’ Well, now, the most utopian of all utopian
possibilities—flying—has become a reality. Technical art has won this
victory. And must the spirit alone remain forever enchained in the
wallowing depths of hatred and brutality? Certainly not!
“Just as soon as human genius shall put forth the same determination,
the same assurance, as it has put forth in technical work, for the
attainment of moral ideals, it will be likewise victorious. All the
technical inventions have had the one end and aim of making life more
beautiful, more enjoyable, easier,—in a word, of distributing happiness.
But what genuine happiness is possible if all intellectual activities
are ever maintained for the purpose of rendering life more unendurable
and of destroying it? With his physical capacities, man must grow
psychically, else will he become more and more dangerous and wretched
instead of growing greater and happier. Now that he has subdued steam
and electricity and radium and the Hertzian waves, in order to make
existence more comfortable for him, the time has come that he should,
with equal confidence and equally firm resolution, try to make
serviceable those other forces which also are inherent in the
world,—good will, love, reason,—and which alone are fit to endow life
with beauty and value.”
A murmur of approbation stirred through the hall. Helmer advanced a step
toward the front of the platform and stretched out both his hands:—
“Aye, Good Will! I have uttered there the holiest concept in the
universe. For the upward flights of the soul, this is the only motor
power—‘Good Will’! If aeronautics and aviation had not discovered the
lightest possible motor, they would still have been Utopias. And all
endeavors to solve social problems, to bring security and comfort to
human society, all attempts to rouse men’s souls into higher spheres,
have necessarily failed, for the precise reason that Good Will,
Goodness—called weakness by the narrow-minded—has not been made the
moving power for the conduct of social and political life. Of course,
there are still other splendid qualities, and these are universally
upheld as the basis of character and as the motives of noble behavior:
courage, determination, intellect, enthusiasm, strength. But there is
only one criterion for their inward value and outward valuation—they are
worthy and blessed only when they are used in the service of Good Will.
The qualities I have named strengthen our activity—they do not ennoble
it. There is courage shown in wickedness, determination in cruelty,
intellect in malignity, enthusiasm in hatred, and strength in
arbitrariness. And in fact, these elicit our admiration, because in the
brilliancy of the qualification the abomination of the subject is
forgotten.
“I repeat, I am not standing here as a prophet of misfortune; but
neither do I stand here as a preacher of virtue. The need is not to
educate to goodness, to create and awaken feelings of benevolence; only
the goodness which is alive among us men needs to be put into action.
There is a field, a vast field embracing almost all social relations,
and at its very entrance stands this placard of warning: ‘Goodness and
Benevolence are forbidden entrance to this field’—the name of which is:
‘Politics.’
“This placard, put up by folly and stupidity, must be torn down. There
must be room even on this, especially on this, field for humanity’s
Highest Thinking.
“Some two thousand years ago a great, good, wise spirit put into words a
similar High Thought: ‘Love one another.’ But in vain. And some
thousands of years ago an Icarus had attempted to fly up to the sun—but
in vain. And yet to-day we can fly. And likewise that other lofty realm
is to be won—in which not our bodies but our souls are to soar!
“Woe to us if we delay much longer to make ready for this new conquest.
Persecution, slavery, and destruction must no longer be regarded as
legitimate means for the attainment of social and political ends. For
the possibilities of annihilation have grown to be too powerful. There
is no other way of self-protection against the flying man than by making
him a brother. We are now at the parting of the ways; we must go up
higher—up to the highest heights with intellect and heart—_sursum
corda_—or we shall sink into nameless abysses. We must make clear to
ourselves whither lead the two paths that lie open before us—for the
choice is ours.”
Here again Helmer made a brief pause; then he stepped to the very edge
of the platform:—
“Now one further word about thoughts that soar.... The evil does not
consist in the fact that men are incapable of cherishing High Thoughts,
but in this:—that they have a low opinion of man. Their so-called
Worldly Wisdom culminates in their declaring with a scornful face that
it is impossible to set up noble and elevated ideals as acting rules for
life. He who scents out low and selfish motives back of every really
noble word and deed believes that he is wise and keen, that his mind is
peculiarly shrewd. Such men are always trying to see through things—they
have not learned to look up. Confidence in the good awakens the good.
The masses will follow up to that height to which a real leader will
venture to lead them; they will never go farther than the leader thinks
them capable of going. We have arrived at an epoch when, in spite of the
law of gravity, the body can soar to unknown heights. It is beyond the
power of the imagination to foresee to what spiritual heights we and our
children may attain, when once, with resolution and earnestness, with
confidence and enthusiasm, we endeavor to bring about the conquest of
High Thinking. The great philosopher who was filled with equal awe
before the splendor of the starry heavens and before the Categorical
Imperative of his own conscience, Immanuel Kant, anticipated the motto
of this Rose-Week when he said—and with this quotation I bring my
address to a close:—‘Men cannot think highly enough of man.’”