SUNDRY CONVERSATIONS
The next afternoon many scattered groups were sitting again in the hall
of the Grand Hotel, and in the majority of them the conversation turned
on Chlodwig Helmer’s address. Translations of it into French, English,
and Italian were lying about on the tables. Some of the hotel guests
held in their hands Helmer’s book “Schwingen.” The works of all the
authors present in the Toker palace were not only to be found in the
Lucerne bookshops, but were for sale also in the various hotels. Many
visitors who had heard the poet’s address, the day before, had now got
the work that had made his name famous and were eagerly turning its
pages.
In one corner sat Bruning, Malhof, and Regenburg chatting over their
wine and cigars. They were discussing their fellow-countryman, Helmer.
“He was a schoolmate of mine,” Bruning was saying. “Not at all a
remarkable scholar: weak in mathematics; hardly up in the ancient
languages. His teachers, however, were easy on him—he was the son of a
cabinet minister.”
The well-known sportsman exclaimed in astonishment: “Oh, you don’t say
so? I had supposed he used to be a secretary or the like with a
count....”
“Quite right, he was ... at one time. His parents died early; his
property was gone; he did not stick to his career as government clerk;
poetizing had got into his blood; he was always in the clouds, even on
the school form ... and then he accepted a position which afforded him
leisure for writing. After he left the count’s house, he devoted himself
entirely to the art of poetry. I should have expected a more brilliant
career for him.”
“Pardon me,” said Malhof, “isn’t that a rather brilliant career—being a
celebrated poet?”
Bruning shrugged his shoulders: “What is it to be a celebrated poet in
our country, while one is alive? Did you ever meet one at court? Is a
street ever named after one? And one was never known to get rich like a
successful operetta composer or a brewer. My friend Helmer ought to make
a good match. I had schemed one for him long ago. But he is so horribly
unpractical—you could see that from his address yesterday. These
sentimental impossibilities! Lack of tact—talks there before a public
audience composed of kings, statesmen, people of the world, as if it
were a gathering of Socialists.”
“Yes,” said the sportsman in confirmation, “I noticed that he attacked
military institutions with especial virulence—like a real Red. He
apparently thinks it is not right for aeronautics and aviation to be
used for military purposes. That is unpatriotic. I long ago enlisted in
the volunteer automobile corps and I should not hesitate to place my
flying-machine at the disposal of the Ministry of War. But, by Jove!
that was a marvelous exhibition of flying the day before yesterday. I
must get a pair of folding wings like those!”
“To return to Helmer,” said Malhof. “A good deal that he said was rather
striking ... things that I had never thought of before, though I am an
old man of wide experience; things, the possibility and desirability of
which I must admit.”
“Really!” cried Bruning. “Such changes—that will turn things upside
down—do they seem desirable to you?”
“Desirable for the next generation, not for our own, for people do not
like to be disturbed in their quiet and in their habits. We do not only
say, ‘After us the deluge’; we also say, ‘After us the millennium’; for
in order to bring it about, we should have to make quite too
inconvenient efforts ... let our great-grandchildren attain a golden
age; we ourselves are quite comfortable in our present circumstances; we
want to go on enjoying the present order of things and educate our boys
to do the same.”
Bruning nodded his head in assent: “_We_ say this—but our friend
Regenburg is right: the Socialists think otherwise; they are not
contented with the circumstances; they want revolution; therefore such
cloud-storming addresses are not merely unpractical; they are dangerous,
and we must be on our guard against them.”
“’Tis not necessary,” replied Malhof. “Active measures against them
would only profit the revolutionists. All their dreaming, speechmaking,
dissertations remain inoperative through the vast passive resistance
which they buck up against—a wholly unconscious resistance, for it is
combined of indifference and absolute ignorance. If one of them speaks
in an assembly and the assembly applauds, then he believes that he has
conquered a comprehending world of his contemporaries. Nevertheless, not
only does the world of his contemporaries remain unmoved, but even among
the assembled audience the majority, when they have left the hall,
scarcely remember what arguments have been put before them. How little
interest men feel in universal questions! Most people do not even know
that there are circumstances that might be changed. Everything that
exists in the social and political line, they take for granted, like the
weather and the seasons. It is easy enough to hear about those matters,
but to take an active part in them, that is another thing. People have
so many private interests which are wholly absorbing—their career, their
business, their trade, their passions, their family cares, their bitter
days and their joyous festivals—there is no room for speculations and
Utopias and revolutions. Existing institutions have their competent
directors regularly appointed to look after their management, or, in
case of necessity, to bring about reform; but we do not have to get
mixed up in it ... everything revolutionary is so inconvenient; it
disturbs every kind of activity—Heaven protect us from it! You see, that
is the state of mind of the compact masses. And so let the world
reformers talk themselves hoarse. When they are talked out, it is
burnt-out fireworks—nothing more!”
“Do you reckon yourself also among the ‘compact masses,’ Herr von
Malhof?” asked Bruning.
“Certainly I do. Never in my life have I taken any interest in the
so-called ‘questions.’ I have had far too much to do in making my
existence as pleasant and enjoyable as possible. For me, the wisdom of
life consists in making the little square metre of existence which we
possess as comfortable as we can, in trying to embellish it, without at
the same time staring at the thousand-mile stretches that lie beyond.
And then, one thing more, my good friend: to battle against
thousand-year-old institutions with addresses and volumes of poems, as
your honored friend does, is like scratching away Chimborazo with a
nail-file. As far as I could make out, Herr Helmer strikes at the
belt-line of militarism with his aeronautic arguments—I could not repeat
them—the things rebound from my memory like dry-peas from a wall. Just
look at our military establishment at home. How does it stand there?
Isn’t it just like a Chimborazo? All that glory, that prestige, that
power—there is only one other power comparable to it—the Church. That is
the reason the two stand by each other so firmly. And really are not all
who have their habitations at the foot of these Chimborazos perfectly
contented? Haven’t they planted there all their joy, their ambition,
their fame, their ideas of virtue?... What is the good, then, of
frightening them out of their comfortable security under the pretext
that other and more comfortable conditions are to be created for coming
generations? No, your young friend must not cherish any illusions;
believe me, he will not....”
“Why do you say all this to me?” interrupted Bruning; “I am entirely of
your opinion and have never pretended to Helmer that I shared his
illusions. I know the world better than he does.... ‘One cannot think
highly enough of man’!—such an idea as that can only be expressed by a
philosopher far removed from reality, and repeated by a cloud-sailing
poet. Well, and what do you say, Regenburg?”
“I—what do I say?—About what?”
“Haven’t you been listening?”
“Oh, yes—I—well, I am afraid that through all these new
sports,—especially in the air,—the horses will entirely die out.”
“Even Pegasuses?” suggested Malhof, laughing.
In another niche sat Romeo Rinotti and Gaston de la Rochère in a
colloquy. They, too, were discussing the yesterday’s address. The
Frenchman held the translation of Helmer’s speech in his hand. He looked
disgusted.
“What do you say to it? Have you read it through?” asked Rinotti.
“I have just glanced over it, my dear Marquis. And that has sufficed to
make me angry enough.” He flung the pamphlet on the table. “German poets
should confine themselves to singing about forget-me-nots, but not
deliver discourses about things they do not understand. What does this
one know about the action of airships in the war to come? Or perhaps he
wants to spoil the pleasure of other nations in building air-fleets,
because Germany—thanks to her Zeppelin—has gone so far ahead.... In
return our single flyers are far more numerous and much better
perfected. Besides, we have really made a beginning with the
dirigibles ... might far more easily reach the forefront again, if this
miserable pestilential republic would only look out better for the
national defense.”
Rinotti laughed: “So then you are an arch-royalist? But you are really
doing injustice to your present régime; just see how in the last few
years your expenditure for the army and the fleet has mounted up.”
“Oh, stuff; that is only hypocrisy ... they are afraid of arousing the
anger of genuine patriots, and consequently they do not venture to hold
back the funds as much as they would like to; but at the same time they
haven’t the slightest intention of standing up boldly for the honor of
France.”
“You mean the _Revanche_. Certainly, only a very few of your
fellow-countrymen wish for that any longer.”
“That is just the trouble. Magnanimous feelings, bold ideas are dying
out.... No, not quite so bad as that ... they still live, but they are
suppressed, kept down ... and what can you expect as long as a party is
in power sacrilegious enough to lay violent hands on the Church? Thence
only one thing can rescue our poor land: to restore the monarchy.”
“Are you a leader of _les Camelots du Roy?_” asked Rinotti.
“No; the methods of these young men are too coarse for me—they even
shock the claimants themselves. Yet I am undisturbed: _Dieu protège la
France_. In one way or another Providence will restore to us our old
rights. If not a king, perhaps a dictator, or a great soldier will
come.... We have already had one or two attempts to that end: Boulanger,
Marchand ... the right one will sometime appear, and if he should
succeed in winning back the beloved provinces, even if he should merely
wave the colors in order to hasten to the frontier, then,—then all
Frenchmen would follow him with wild enthusiasm.”
Rinotti shook his head. “Do you believe so? I opine that a war which
your nationalists themselves should start would no longer be popular in
the country. The storm must break out somewhere else: Germany would have
to be entangled in war with England or Russia; then France might go to
their help and in the natural course of events the _Revanche_ might come
of itself; even the régime might be changed. Why, even a defeat might
result in overturning the republic and the new king might have the
chance of restoring the conditions that you desire.”
“That would be fine! But how can one look forward to such events when
everywhere these anti-military doctrines are making their way not only
in Socialist congresses, but even in public entertainments, like these
here—and in presence of the heads of States!”
“Words, words!” exclaimed Rinotti scornfully: “borne away by the wind.
And even if the wind should carry away a few fruitful seeds, when will
they sprout?—In the far, distant future. Meantime, however, deeds come
to the front ... deeds of the present, which are the fruits of seeds
scattered in the past. The old hatred, the old distrust, the long
cumulated threats: all that must rage itself out first. And the entire
world of to-day is prepared for it; school has trained for it, the
masses are drilled for it; the instruments are ready. And how easily do
these latent forces break out into acute manifestation! What is preached
by good people, but bad politicians,—à la Helmer,—arouses no fanaticism,
however conciliatory, however reasonable it may sound. Can one ever
bring conciliation to fever-heat or reason to a flame? Ah, believe me,
only the violent instincts drive the machinery called history. And those
who are elected to make history need nothing else but force, and again
force, in order to keep the machine going in the direction which they
want. And the general conception ‘force’ splits into separate qualities:
unbending will, unscrupulousness, inflexibility, formidableness—these
are the attributes of the great statesman. But only in his political
activity; as a private citizen he must at the same time be amiable,
yielding, full of good humor, tender to his family, polite to his
subordinates—in general, what is called ‘un charmeur.’ In addition he
must have genius; and this, too, is needed: he must have luck!”
La Rochère had accompanied Rinotti’s utterance with nods of
satisfaction. “You are a wise statesman!” he exclaimed; and leaning over
to look the marchese in the eye, he asked in a lower tone of voice:
“Tell me, is there likelihood of war breaking out anywhere? Do you
perchance know anything about it?”
Rinotti bit his lips: “I know nothing, and if I did, I should not tell.”
Prince Victor Adolph was sitting on his balcony, reading over and over a
letter which he had received that morning from home. Its writer was his
oldest brother, the crown prince, who informed him, under the seal of
confidence, that an old project, which had once before been broached and
then dropped, had come to the front again and was on the point of
accomplishment. The point was, that Victor Adolph was to be made regent
of a border province which was aspiring to independence. By this
appointment, the province would immediately find its desires for
autonomy fulfilled. This was a tempting outlook: anything rather than
the empty show of military service so detestable to him. In this
position, opportunity would be afforded him of working up, of carrying
out plans the mighty outlines of which hovered before his mind. A joyous
feeling of expectation stirred the young man’s soul. The future, the
future—it lay open before him; and he would fill it with progressive
ideas, with progressive deeds, with “soaring thoughts” ... He dwelt on
these words.
Then an idea suggested itself to him. He went to a writing-table, dashed
off a few lines on a sheet of paper, and rang.
“Take this immediately to the Rose-Palace,” he ordered the servant who
responded to his summons. The note was addressed to Chlodwig Helmer, and
contained an invitation to Mr. Helmer to call on the prince in the
course of the afternoon, if he had time.
A quarter of an hour later, Chlodwig sent in his name. The prince was in
his salon alone. He started forward to meet his visitor.
Helmer bowed:—
“Your Royal Highness summoned me....”
Victor Adolph offered him his hand: “Thank you for fulfilling my wish so
promptly. Yesterday evening we had no opportunity, and I was so desirous
of hearing a good deal more on the subject of your address. Let us sit
down.... Here, please. A cigarette?” He held out his gold
cigarette-case.
Chlodwig thanked him and took one. The prince also offered him a light
and then kindled his own.
“You see, Herr Helmer,” he pursued, “what you said yesterday evening
moved me tremendously. Partly, because you gave utterance to ideas which
have been for a long time floating indefinitely in my mind, and partly
because you opened up before me entirely new perspectives.”
“I am delighted to hear such a thing, Your Highness. Tell me what was
familiar to you and what was new?”
“There is, for example, ... good Heavens, I really don’t know where to
begin.... I should like to have a lesson in things which you did not
speak about. I will ask you: If you were a king, what would you do to
carry out the lofty flight of your ideals?”
“If I were a king,” repeated Chlodwig thoughtfully. “Many a man has
imagined to himself that contingency. _Si j’étais roi_ is the title of
an opera.—If I were a king, then I should have lived in other
conditions, should have had another kind of education, inherited other
instincts.... The love of soldiering would be inherent in my blood—the
first king was a victorious soldier;—the concept ‘Majesty,’ mounting
from the humbly bowing masses, would have risen to my head, stinging and
bewitching me, like the bubbling spirits rising in champagne-cups.... My
breast would be swelled with the consciousness of power. I should
probably not let it be noticed, and I should take pains to seem affable
and natural. I should be well aware that my power was to a certain
degree limited in modern, constitutional, and enlightened times, and,
therefore, I should instinctively fear what threatens it still more:
revolutionary ideas and activities; and likewise should instinctively
prize all that protected it: my faithful nobles, my loyal army; on the
whole, the conservative spirit. I should simply know nothing of the
struggles and problems and aims of the progressive spirit. ‘Liberal,’ in
the court-jargon, is synonymous with ‘suspicious,’ and ‘radical’;
signifying a will-power, which goes to the very root of things, is
synonymous with ‘criminal.’ I should not have had much experience of the
sorrows of the poor and wretched; that would be to me as remote and
natural as a pool in a morass or the débris of a quarry. My consolation
would be that the poor people would still hope for compensation beyond
the grave, and in order to strengthen them in this hope, I should set
them an example of piety—should perhaps actually be pious, through the
necessity slumbering in every better soul of being occasionally humble.
As I am one who tries to do right, and should be the same if I were a
king, I should fulfill scrupulously my really difficult duties. I should
work with zeal and industry. For recreation and pleasure, I should go
hunting. Indeed, this sport would involve a certain amount of ambition,
for I should be well aware of the respectful interest with which the
world would chronicle every successful shot of my rifle and be ready to
erect a monument in memory of my thousandth stag. I should....”
“Stop!” cried the prince; “you are unfair!”
“Quite possibly. I have been generalizing, and in doing so, one cannot
be fair. And above all, Your Royal Highness, I regret having somewhat
failed in due tact. I should not have spoken to a king’s son as I have.
But because I know that you are quite different from the others....”
“But you are also unfair to those others, Herr Helmer. Don’t you believe
that the spirit of the age also makes its way through the seams of
palaces and throne-rooms? That ‘lofty thinking’ and free thinking are
also carried on under crowns? Look at those little German courts the
princes of which cherish a cult for art or promote the investigations
and activities of such men as, for example, Ernst Haeckel! And this
‘lofty thought’ for which you seem especially enthusiastic, ‘universal
peace’: don’t you see that the very emperor who at his first accession
to the throne was expected by the world to hanker after military
laurels, has for long decades done everything he could to avoid war?”
“I recognize that,” answered Helmer; “but the question means more than
merely not waging war; it means putting down war.”
“I call your attention to this: I just remarked the Emperor has done
what he could. The power and will of a great ruler stand behind mighty
barriers and walls. His court, his army, his environment, his whole
inheritance of traditional principles and the institutions which he is
placed there to preserve—all these things combine together to hamper the
accomplishment of his aspirations. The portrait that you have just
painted of a king does not apply any longer to our contemporary rulers
in their inmost reality—yet their environment combines to make them
such. Now, see here, my dear poet, you were complaining that they knew
nothing of the sorrows of the people; you are right: the classes are too
widely separated; they know nothing of each other. So it is with the
princes: those that do not live in association with them know but little
about them and form false notions; they conceive them to be of the
‘demigod’ or ‘Serenissimus’ type, but in truth they are exactly like
other men; differing from one another, good and bad, stupid and clever,
insignificant and talented. But they do have one actual advantage: they
control more power and influence than ordinary mortals, and for that
reason it would be a good thing if princes were to come forward as
champions of the highest aspirations of the time.”
“But suppose—my objection may, perhaps, again sound somewhat
tactless—but suppose these aspirations include what Kant once laid down
as a postulate—that monarchies are doomed to make way for a republican
régime....”
“This will not be accomplished overnight.”
“No; and then I grant you that the question is not whether the régime
ought to change. Governmental forms are, after all, only forms—the
content is the important thing. What must change, what must grow, is the
spirit, and certainly in all strata. The general level of all mankind
must rise. I myself should not like to see the control of government put
into the hands of the masses as they are to-day.”
The prince made a somewhat impatient gesture. “I beg of you, Herr
Helmer, let us not deal in generalities. Yesterday, I heard a
wonderfully beautiful litany of them proceed from your lips; now I
should like something positive, concrete. For that reason, I put my
question to you: What would you _do_ if you were a king? _Do_—_work
at_—that is the gist of the matter. And a king can do things, as long as
Kant’s wish is not as yet fulfilled—because he has much power; not
unlimited power, of course. Put to yourself this case: that you—you
yourself, no one else, you with all your experiences, your knowledge,
your poetic accomplishment—were suddenly made a powerful king.... One
can imagine one’s self in another position—I know it from experience. I
have often asked myself, if I were a common soldier, if I were a poor
proletarian, how should I feel, what should I try to do in order to win
a little happiness and freedom for myself and my fellows, or to give
vent to my wrath over the unfairness under which we sigh and drudge....
Perhaps you do not know, Helmer, that I take a passionate interest in
social problems; that often, just as others sneak into gambling-hells or
other places of forbidden pleasure, I have slipped into assemblies where
the Socialists....”
“I know it, Your Highness,” interrupted Helmer.
The prince had been speaking with animated voice and his cheeks were
flushed. Now he seized Chlodwig’s hand. “So then, tell me! You who are a
poet and therefore something of a prophet; you who would raise goodness
to the level of a motive force for political action,—tell me, how would
you help the people?”
“What people? Mine? Is it impossible to help one people alone. In our
day of universal international intercourse and trade, every country is
dependent on every other. One nation cannot by itself be rich, happy,
and independent. The nations are not hermits; they form a community. In
my kingdom, could I put down capitalism, could I do away with war, if
others threatened me with it; if I took down my own tariff walls, could
I break through the limitations of the others? There is no individual
happiness—‘_reciprocally_’—‘_coöperatively_’—‘_mutually_’: those are the
adverbs without which no blissful verb can be conjugated.”
“Then what would you do?”
“Seek to make alliances with my fellow-royalties. I should—yet I have no
perfected plan of action in my mind, Prince. Only one thing is quite
clear: the mechanicians have won over a new element which for many
thousands of years they never dared hope to enter into. There is also a
spiritual, a moral upper ocean into which hitherto no one has ventured
to steer the so-called ship of State. I cherish the faith that by this
time among the potentates, one—the Zeppelin—is born and will work and
accomplish, and dare obstinately, confidently, prophetically, in spite
of all doubts, all resistance; and will let his ship mount up into those
heights of light.... Pardon me, Prince, I have one great fault into
which I am always falling: speaking far too much in metaphors.”
“Pardonable in a poet.”
“But you wished to hear something concrete, positive,—in this respect I
have served you ill.”
“No; your Zeppelin picture gives me a quite correct orientation. First
one must gather from the light of reason, even if no experience answers
for it, that a thing is feasible; then one must will and dare. The
individual manipulations will come into play later.”
Helmer gazed at the prince. A warm wave of liking for him arose in his
heart; then instantly this same heart seemed to contract as if under a
cold pressure. The thought of Franka ... how natural it would be that
she should love that man....
As if Victor Adolph had read the poet’s thoughts, he asked: “You are an
old acquaintance of Fräulein Garlett’s, are you not?”
Chlodwig gave a start. “Yes, Your Royal Highness.”
“The lady interests me very much. Can you tell me anything of her
story?”
Helmer told him what he knew: the secluded childhood and youth with her
father who was in slender circumstances; her worship of that father; the
summons to the grandfather’s home; the fabulous inheritance; and then
her passionate desire to accomplish some great work, to offer herself up
in the service of her fellow-men—as if an atonement for the unearned
wealth; then her career and its results.
“A remarkable fortune!” exclaimed Victor Adolph. “You were her teacher?”
“I? Her teacher?”
“Yes, she told me so herself.”
“She meant that when she was as yet uncertain how she might find the
great thing which she dreamed of doing, I gave her some advice.”
“And has not this pretty young woman had any love-affair in the course
of her life?”
“I know of none.”
“Is she so cold? She must have had many suitors.”
“Indeed, she has. She has been much sought after and has refused many an
offer.”
“And you yourself, Herr Helmer, in all this giving of advice, has your
heart remained without a wound?”
“Your Highness ... I....”
“Well, well; it was an indiscreet question. Pray don’t feel obliged to
answer it.”
The valet brought the afternoon mail on a silver salver, and at the same
time announced that His Excellency the adjutant to the King of Italy
desired to see His Highness. Chlodwig arose and took his departure.
The prince shook hands with him: “Auf wiedersehen. We will have another
talk—not on indiscreet questions, but about dirigible ships of State.”
“Papa, am I interrupting you?”
Gwendoline stood at the door of Toker’s room.
“Of course, you interrupt me, for I am never unoccupied. But come in,
Gwen; it will do me good to have you divert me a little from all kinds
of melancholy things.”
The young girl stepped nearer. “How is that? You are in trouble! Does
not everything go according to your wish in this rose-magic of which you
are yourself the great conjurer?”
“Here everything is fairly satisfactory; but outside, in the wide
world!” And he indicated a heap of newspapers and letters lying before
him on the table.
While glancing through these messages from the outside world, John Toker
had been spending a couple of uncomfortable hours. Very bad tidings had
come. Not only the alarmist predictions which emanate from those parties
that always have on tap announcements of an unavoidable war with this,
that, or the other neighboring State; but also positive proofs that in
various places, in circles that had the necessary power in their hands,
the intention prevailed to deliver the blow. In more than one center of
discord, little flames were rising and might easily break out into a
destructive conflagration. The press was not lacking in writers who were
working with poker and bellows for this end so desirable to them for
many reasons. Fortunately there were not lacking, among either rulers or
statesmen, those who were using their best endeavors to stamp out the
dangerous embers; who hesitated about drawing the sword even when they
were provoked—but the decision finally lies, after all, with the
aggressive and not with the opposing portion.
Not only from the papers, but also from private sources, Toker had
received the intimation that dangerous dissensions were likely to break
out. He was in friendly relationship with powerful circles in various
countries, and he got wind of much that was going on behind the scenes
in politics. Thus it had been conveyed to him that day that one country,
whose chief ruler was thoroughly opposed to war, had a large military
party working with all its might, in order that an insignificant
question at issue should be made the cause for an ultimatum. This party
desired to march right in. It found that the moment was favorable. The
victory would be easily won; glory and laurels might be obtained;
internal dangers fermenting might thus be obviated; and in spite of the
opposition of the monarch they were plotting to aggravate the friction
in order that the “marching in” might be plausible.
However, that is not the proper word: what the war-lovers in question
had in mind was not “marching in,” but “flying in.” In all countries the
air-fleets had attained considerable proportions, but just at this time
this particular State had made a remarkable advance. Moreover, a new
invention in the domain of aviation had been recently made and was kept
a great secret, and a new explosive had been introduced. With this, the
enemy could be annihilated and the world confounded. The admiral of the
air-fleet was all on fire to enrich the military history of the world
with a hitherto unheard-of battle and victory. John A. Toker felt a
quite peculiar horror at this form of the modern, ultra-modern art of
war; not only because he expected the most terrible destruction from it;
but also his æsthetic and moral feelings were revolted by seeing hell
carried even into the regions of the skies.
Still other catastrophes were looming on the horizon: bread riots;
economic crises; terrorism from below by assassination and incendiarism;
terrorism from above by executions; ... and for those who looked far
ahead, a general break-up; civilization buried under ruins. Can this be
the end and goal of mankind’s lofty aspirations?
Toker felt like one who has brought a wonderfully beautiful garden,
situated at the foot of a mountain, to a high state of cultivation, and
suddenly notices that the mountain has begun to smoke.
“Every comparison limps” is a correct expression: the lameness in this
figure is, that the destruction streaming from the fiery depths of the
volcano is the work of incomprehensible, uncontrollable powers of
nature, while in these eruptions treasured as “historical,” men
themselves have fabricated the lava, and, thanks to their crater-deep
idiocy, use it for their own destruction.
Yet not all the news that had been brought to Toker’s notice, and lay
there in a great pile, was bad: there were also some encouraging items.
If one attentively listens in every quarter, one can hear the subdued
regular rumble of the great loom, where the genius of Progress is
weaving stitch by stitch the web of Unity which is bound ultimately to
bring together the whole civilized world. Toker’s alarm grew out of the
fact that the all-reigning spirit of growth is often interrupted and set
back by the spirit of destruction, which by fits and starts exercises
its harmful calling and in some places undoes what seems on the fairest
path of development.
“Well, Gwen, what amusing thing have you to tell me?”
“Amusing? I wanted a serious talk with you, papa.”
“You—and serious! But really you look quite solemn. Has anything
happened?”
Gwendoline made several attempts to speak, and then paused again; she
was seeking for the right words and could not find them.
“Courage, Gwen! Have you some wish?”
“More than that, papa;—it is a resolution.”
“Oho! that sounds really serious. Perhaps you want to marry one of my
Rose-Knights. We should have to think that over very gravely.”
“You are making sport of me, papa. I believe you consider me a very
stupid girl, and, indeed, I know I am. Up till now I have not taken any
interest in all the great things which you are working for. But in these
last few days my eyes have been opened.”
“Have you been listening to all the things that my great guests have
said, and did you understand them?”
“No, not all. I believed, as you yourself seem to believe, that those
things are too high for me; that I could not understand them; that they
had nothing to do with me. Only when the personal appeal was made to me,
did I prick up my ears.”
Mr. Toker raised his head in astonishment. “An appeal made to you
personally? How so? by whom?”
“By Franka Garlett: ‘Ye young maidens, listen to me!’ she said. I
listened to her and....”
“Well ... and...?” urged Toker eagerly.
Gwendoline, who had been standing behind the writing-table, now sat
down, as she was frequently wont to do, on the arm of Toker’s chair. She
put her arm around her father’s neck and said: “You have called all
these prominent people here, haven’t you, in order that their words,
which you permit to be so freely uttered, may have a wide audience, may
arouse to convictions and to deeds; in a word, may make proselytes....”
“Yes, that is my intention.”
“Well, I believe it will succeed. I know of one enthusiastic proselyte
already made by Miss Garlett.”
“You, my dear?”
“Yes, I. Let me have a share in your work; initiate me! I want to learn
to have the same kind of ideas. I don’t believe that I lack the ability.
Yesterday, I listened very attentively to the address of that
‘Schwingen’ poet. (And between us, if I am not mistaken, he is in love
with Miss Garlett.) I could not understand all that he said, but still I
understood enough to get some new light; the question is to make men,
that is to say, their souls, fly up into higher regions.”
Quite correct, thought Toker; but that their souls may fly high, the
main thing is to help their bodies out of wretchedness, depravity,
hunger, and squalor—the masses must be able to free themselves. Aloud he
said: “Just see, how my little girl has profited from the teachings of
my speakers! Gwen, this gratifies me, indeed! Go on with your thinking
and your learning.”
“But I should like also _to do_ something, papa, and you must tell me
what!”
“Just at this moment I can’t tell you what you will be capable of doing.
First let what has been sowed in your little head during these last two
days ripen. I have my doubts about such sudden conversions. Nine chances
out of ten, such seeds will be blown away again.”
Gwendoline sprang to her feet: “Have you so little faith in me?” she
exclaimed reproachfully. “No wonder, though, for up till now I have been
such a superficial good-for-nothing thing.”
“You have been a child, and that was all that was expected of you; there
is no reason why you should not remain such for a while yet. Destinies
and tasks are unequally distributed. Not all men can give themselves
exclusively to caring for the weal of others; there must be some, also,
who are carelessly happy themselves—especially in life’s Maytime.”
The morning after the supper with Helmer, Franka awoke with a dull
headache. She had not slept well, but restlessly, feverishly, anxiously.
She could not have told what had filled her mind with worry, with
anticipation, with uncertainty; for her thoughts had led her on rather
confused meanderings. Now as she got up, she felt that there was a
burden on her mind, and she explained this state of things by the deluge
of impressions that had swept over her, and by the fact that her
resolution to renounce her career as a lecturer had left her facing an
uncertain and aimless future.... And yet at the same time this
resolution was agreeable to her, for in that career she no longer saw
before her any shining goal, any prize of victory to satisfy her
longing.
Aye, it was longing which lurked in the background of her unrest.
Longing? For what? Franka was no unsophisticated child, and she put the
question to herself, without unconscious bashfulness: “Is my hour come?
Does Nature demand her rights? Do I wish to live, to love?”
Her thoughts turned on the two young men who for several days had filled
her imagination and her dreams. But neither of them had declared
himself. The prince was perhaps too proud, the poet too modest, to want
to marry her. And to which of them should she give the preference? To
this question her heart gave a whispered answer, but so softly whispered
that it was not decisive.
After her cold morning bath and her hot morning tea, she felt refreshed
and somewhat calmer. She put on a simple street-toilette and left her
room. She felt the need of getting out into free nature, and she bent
her steps toward the neighboring wood. Purposely she refrained from
inviting Frau Eleonore to accompany her, for she wanted to be alone with
her thoughts, to take counsel of her own heart.
She wanted to ask herself what now were her wishes, her hopes, her
purposes.—Was the resolution definitely fixed to retire from a public
career? Was it justified? She had taken up as her task “To accomplish
something great”: was this task accomplished? And was it not presumption
to suppose that she was capable of accomplishing anything “great”? To do
that, one must be great one’s self, and that she certainly was not.
During this Rose-Week, when she had met with so many brilliant men and
women of genius, she had fallen very low in her own estimation.
What was she with her rather superficial fluency in comparison with all
these mighty artists, thinkers, poets, inventors? Could she only tell
them all how insignificant she felt in comparison with them! Just as
there are attacks of pride and ambition, so Franka now had an attack of
the deepest humility, a strong yearning for seclusion:—it was one of
those hours when one wishes one’s Ego dismounted from its too prominent
pedestal, whereon it has been standing in far too haughty isolation;
when one would like to compel it into a kneeling and leaning attitude of
humbleness before a dearer “Thou”....
Through the grove breathed a delicious fragrance of warm resin and moist
moss. Buried in her thoughts, Franka had been wandering for an hour
hither and thither through the forest, and had reached a spot where a
wooden seat was built around an ancient oak tree. She was rather tired,
and so sat down on the seat, winding her arm around the trunk and
leaning her forehead on it: thus she rested. The air was hot and full of
the hum of insects. An agreeable weariness closed Franka’s eyelids; yet
she was not asleep, only sinking into a comfortable half-doze,
comparable to the feeling that plants may have under the caress of the
sunbeams or the fanning of gentle breezes. Her breath, the beating of
her heart and the song of the forest, the whispering of the tree-tops,
melted together into one harmonious rhythm. It was the undefined, softly
soothing delight of mere existence—nothing more. And yet with it all was
mingled something new, something never before experienced by her,
something that did not seem to belong wholly to the present, but
throbbed as if at the coming of a future fulfillment—
A voice startled her out of this twilight of the soul: “Is that you,
Signorina Garlett?”
It was the great Italian tragédienne who was out also for a lonely
morning walk.
Franka sprang up.
“Don’t move. I will sit down with you for a few minutes. It is very
charming here, so quiet and peaceful. I have disturbed you. You were
deep in dreams ... probably you were thinking about your lover.”
“I have no lover.”
“That is incredible—only you will not confide in me. But you might,
carina. I am so much older than you are; I have tasted so fully of the
joys and sorrows of life, and I know well that we women—if we are
genuine women—experience all our pleasure and all our grief only through
love ... everything else is nothing. Our art, our beauty, our social or
domestic virtues—all that is only the shell, is only the tabernacle; the
true sanctuary is our burning and bleeding heart.”
“So speaks one from the South,” replied Franka. “The rest of us are
colder. My heart truly—up to the present time—has neither burned nor
bled for any man. I do not take into account any passing little
acceleration of its throbbing. My work, my duties, have completely
occupied me—up to now....”
“What has been your special work?”
“Making girls over into thinking beings.”
“Thinking—not feeling?”
“The one does not exclude the other. Men, too, feel and love; at the
same time it is their duty to think—not that they always do so—I must
agree to that. You, great artist that you are, who have penetrated into
the depths of poetry, would surely be the last person to forbid women
thinking.”
“No, I do not; but I insist that they love. And ultimately, they all
obey—even the women of the North. In the Northern poets especially I
have found the most fundamental love-problems. However, madamigella
Franka, you just said the words ‘up to now’ in a tone which makes me
suspect that perhaps the coldness which you boast of is already
beginning to melt.”
Franka’s cheeks glowed: “How you read people’s souls, maestra!”
The other smiled sweetly, and seized Franka’s hand. “So it must come,”
said she, “once in every life. But,” she added in another tone, “shan’t
we return? Don’t you hear distant thunder?”
In fact a low growling of thunder was heard, repeated two or three
times; and the air was sultry. Franka got up.
“Very well, let us go. We shall have time enough to get under shelter.
You see, it is the same way with my love ... far and low I seem to hear
the premonition of what may prove to be a heart-storm. It has not as yet
arrived, but it is coming and it will be welcome: I shall not flee from
it, as we are now trying to escape from the threatening shower.”
By this time a few scattering drops were falling. The two women hastened
their steps. Suddenly the Italian actress said:—
“Its coming has been noticed.”
“The coming of what? A quarter of an hour ago, the sky was perfectly
blue.”
“I am speaking of your love-affair, dearest.”
Franka, surprised, lifted her head. “What do you mean?”
“Well—the handsome German prince.”