SPEECHES AND LETTERS
When Victor Adolph left Toker’s study, he felt still more oppressed than
he had been before. A new task had been added to the many prospects and
obligations that were so disturbing to his peace of mind: alluring
prospects, noble tasks, sweet obligations, but in their combination a
scourge of anxieties. And there was no one with whom he might take
counsel, to whom he might open his heart; on the contrary, he had the
perpetual companionship of a man from whom he was obliged to conceal his
inmost thoughts and inclinations—this Orell—and now he had two more
secrets to hide from him. Suppose he should discover that the Royal
Highness entrusted to his protection had offered himself to a woman
without rank and title, and had concealed plans with an American for the
demilitarization of Europe!
Victor Adolph could not help smiling as he pictured to himself the
general standing there, his face scarlet with wrath and horror, his hair
standing on end, and the points of his mustaches trembling. How he would
gasp for words and for breath, and how these words would be even more
laconic and drastic than ever—“Prince ripe for the madhouse!... Cursed
girl.... Caught in the first net.... Old Yankee-doodle.... Proposals to
His Majesty!... To hell with the Rose-Saint-Vitus-dance!”
As he drove away, the prince met Helmer returning from the morning walk.
The encounter was a pleasant surprise. Here was one with whom he might
exchange a few thoughts,—at least, might talk with him about Toker’s
plans,—since he was already initiated into the conspiracy.
“Good-morning, Herr Helmer; I am glad to meet you. Are you just on your
way home?”
“Yes, Your Royal Highness.”
“Have you anything important that you must do immediately?”
“Not at all.”
“Then, if you will permit me, I will go with you to your lodgings.”
“That will be an honor and a pleasure. If you please, this way, Your
Royal Highness; my rooms are on the ground floor.”
He conducted the prince up a few steps, through a corridor to his
sitting-room door, which he opened to usher his visitor in.
“But you are all roses here!” cried Victor Adolph as he entered.
“Yes, the whole house is dedicated to the queen of flowers. But all this
splendor will soon be ended. Two days more and the Rose-Week will be a
thing of the past. Then we shall all be scattered to the four winds.”
“But what has been uttered, planted, experienced, felt here will not be
scattered to the winds.” And as the prince sat down in the easy-chair
which Helmer pushed forward for him, he added with a deep sigh, “I have
gone through a vast lot of experiences since I have been here.”
Helmer looked up inquiringly: “Yet nothing terrible, I hope?”
“That’s as one looks at it—may I?” And he took a cigarette from a
smoking-table standing near.
Helmer gave him a light, then sat down on the other side of the table,
and they were soon engaged in earnest talk.
The prince related his interviews with the master of the house, the news
which he had got from the letters and papers and the plans that Toker
had developed. Helmer manifested the liveliest interest. The
observations that he interpolated, the opinions that he expressed, the
warmth and readiness of enthusiasm which accompanied all his words and
gestures, were so sympathetic to the prince that he felt mightily drawn
to the poet. It did him good to be free to talk with an intelligent mind
about the mission with which Toker had entrusted him. His burden of care
already began to seem lighter. Here he could find counsel and stimulus
and support. His heart began to glow.
“It is a perfect delight, Helmer,” said he, bending over the table and
laying his hand on the other’s arm, “to speak about these things with
you. You have experience and a keen insight, and you have—what shall I
call it?—_Schwingen_—pinions—the upsoaring spirit.... I wish you were my
friend.... Be my friend!”
“I am, as far as I may, my prince.”
The two men shook hands.
“Truly, I have never had a friend; always nothing but flatterers,
time-servers, or else highly respectable jailors, eager _maîtres de
plaisir_; here and there, among those of my own rank and relationship, a
good fellow all too ready for sport and the like—but a friend? Not one!
Not one whom one may trust if one is in trouble or is experiencing a
great happiness—not one to ask advice of in a difficulty.”
“Is that your case, Your Highness?” asked Helmer sympathetically.
“That is my case.”
“Will you honor me with your confidence?”
The prince stood up and walked in some agitation back and forth a few
times; then he went to the window and gazed out for a while. He was
evidently having a struggle with himself. Then he suddenly turned
round:—“Well, then, listen!”
Helmer had also risen and was leaning on his writing-table which stood
near the window. He bent his head. “I am listening.” And at the same
time a suspicion flashed through his mind that he was about to hear
something unpleasant.
“Well, then,” proceeded Victor Adolph. “Happiness, difficulty—everything
comes all at once. During the last twenty-four hours, more things and
more important things have surged into my life than hitherto in many
years. It has been revealed to me that a position of great power—the
position of a monarch—a crown—might be offered to me. I am as democratic
in my instincts as any one could well be; you know that ... yet, I
confess, the notion seems dazzling to me. In the case of other men only,
too great power seems perilous; in one’s own case, one is convinced that
it can be used only for advantage. How much I could help and
accomplish—even in the spirit of those ‘lofty thoughts’ which are at the
present time soaring out from here into the world.—Then the mission,
which I have undertaken at Toker’s desire, to win over my father to an
action which might establish on a firm basis his treasured ideal of
international peace—all these things would be splendid tasks.”
“In what consists the trouble, Prince? I see only the happiness and no
difficulty.”
“The happiness consists in something else—and the difficulty is, that I
must renounce either those duties or the happiness. If I cling to the
happiness, I should lose yonder position and influence, and perhaps my
rank. I am in love, Helmer, madly in love—and I have not the strength of
will to renounce my beloved:—yesterday I made her an offer of marriage.”
Helmer was playing with a paper-cutter: it fell with a crash on the
floor. He stooped over to pick it up, and thus he concealed the pallor
that suddenly invaded his face. So then the moment had arrived, when
that which he had so often dreaded was a reality. He had really never
even hoped to win Franka; he had himself hinted to her the remote
possibility that the prince would be her suitor and had tried to
persuade himself that he would unselfishly rejoice at it. But hitherto
it had been only an unreal figment of his imagination; now it was the
truth. He took longer in regaining the paper-cutter than was necessary.
Now he drew himself up once more.
“So you are to be congratulated,” he said, trying hard to control his
voice. “Is Fräulein Garlett already your betrothed?”
“I cannot as yet call her that ... she has not given her answer ... the
whole affair is still a secret. Oh, Helmer, I cannot tell you how it has
relieved me to take you into my confidence!”
Without knocking, John Toker entered the room: “Hello, Mr. Helmer; the
gong is about sounding for luncheon; I wanted to speak with you about
something beforehand. Ah, you are not alone?...” He at that instant
became aware of the presence of Victor Adolph, who stepped forward from
the embrasure of the window. “Ah, is it you, Your Highness?”
“Yes, it is I; but I must be going now.” And he heartily took his leave
of the two men.
Helmer entered the dining-room in great agitation. How could he endure
meeting Franka with the knowledge that the die had been cast, that she
was about to belong to another? And how would he succeed in hiding the
pangs of jealousy which tormented his heart? Yet he was spared for a
time these difficulties. Franka was not present, and he was informed
that she had sent her apologies for missing the luncheon—she had a
headache. Helmer felt relieved, and yet disappointed. Now it seemed to
him as if he had a hundred things to say to her, and as if he had been
robbed of his privilege of being the first to congratulate her, the
first who should venture to speak with her about this crisis in her
destiny, even before the others knew anything about it.
The conversation at table on this occasion was very animated.
Toker’s guests, as well as Toker himself, had detected in the
reports of newspapers signs of threatening political peril, and
there was a discussion of the conditions. It was conducted in a tone
of dismay, but not at all in the spirit of the usual political
“Kannegiessereien”—narrow-minded twaddle: no combinations based on
diplomatic-national-strategical-historical premises as to whether,
if X-land should declare war on Z-land, Y-land should stand by X or
Z; whether X or Z would have the better chances of winning out; in
what relationship the sea-power of the one would stand toward the
air-power of the other; from what grounds of rivalry or expansion
the conflict had arisen and its outbreak become unavoidable; what
clashing of interests in lofty spheres and what alterations of
boundary lines were imminent, and other technical absurdities of the
same routine variety. No, here were assembled the élite among men,
who looked down from the higher pinnacles on the course of the
world; who based their judgment on philosophical criteria and their
will on humane sentiments.
The French senator and the American statesman, as they sat side by side,
had been for five minutes engaged in a confidential conversation. Then
the Frenchman arose, and tapping on his glass to call the attention of
the Table Round, spoke as follows:—
“I ask your hearing for a proposal.” All came to silence. With the
refined, quiet manner of a diplomatist he went on:—“My honored friend,
sitting next to me, whose statesmanlike services for the cause of peace
are known to all of you, and I, have just been talking over an idea
which has been suggested by the political news so unanimously commented
upon in our midst. The war of the future, so long predicted, stands
before our door: not so near that it may surprise us at any hour, but
still near enough to make us mobilize without delay all the forces that
can be used to ward it off.”
“Hear, hear!” cried John Toker, with flashing eyes.
“There are people who desire this war—especially among the officers and
general-staff circles, with whom such a desire is part of their
profession—and there are people who do _not_ want it. Now the question
is, which of these two groups will have the preponderance? The masses,
for the most part, wherever there is any thought at all, belong to the
second group, but they are dumb and as yet powerless—I say as yet
powerless, for the day may come, and now seems not so very far away,
when this will no longer be the case. But to-day the power of decision
still lies in the hands of the few. Among these few some are for
war—some are against it. Here also those who are against it are already
more numerous; but the others have higher positions and more influence.
What we have to do, then, is to weigh down the scales against the war
with the weight of public opinion and the combined pressure of widely
renowned and highly respected names. And now comes our proposition.”
He paused to drink a swallow of water. The others gave eager attention.
Helmer also, who had been till that moment absorbed in his own thoughts,
was now listening attentively:—
“Ladies and gentlemen,” continued the senator, “we possess here—thanks
to the genius and the millions of our host—it is good when these two are
combined—an apparatus for publicity of marvelous efficacy. What we say
here is sent by wireless telegraphy circling round the world; it is
taken up by ten thousand rotary presses, is repeated by ten thousand
phonographs, is preserved in all the libraries and archives in
existence. So much for the echo. And now for the weight. Let us put
aside false modesty; the Knighthood of the Rose must be conscious and
ought to be conscious of its noble rank, in order to be forever mindful
of the work to which it is pledged. John Toker summons only his
contemporaries of world-wide reputation; only those who through their
art, their scientific abilities, their inventions, their political
activities,—particularly their service in the politics of peace,—have
served all men, and therefore possess universal authority. Just as in
every great country there is the upper ten thousand of the aristocracy,
so we—once more I say, away with false modesty!—form the world’s
half-hundred of talent.”
Toker clapped his hands; the others began to do the same, but the
speaker stretched out his arm in a deprecating gesture and proceeded:—
“We have here a tribune which is visible from all the civilized places
of the earth; our voices ring out as from a gigantic gramophone. So
let us raise these voices in a solemn protest. Let us on the last
evening, instead of indulging, as usually is prearranged on such
occasions, in rhetorical and artistic performances,—let us attempt an
act of rescue. Let us, in a tone of thunder, call a halt to this
disaster! This disaster is no elementary catastrophe beyond the power
of the human will; it is an action commanded by rulers and executed by
the nations, and it must not be commanded and it must not be executed.
If all see clearly how things lie, and if all have the opportunity to
express their will, the ‘Halt!’ sounding forth from here can swell up
into an irresistible negative. The threatening war—we all know what an
insignificant controversy is at the bottom of it—can be averted either
by mediation or by an appeal to the Court of Arbitration. If this is
not done, if the Fury—a Fury armed with fangs, fins, and jaws, and now
also with wings—is again let loose, then it will kindle a
world-conflagration. We will to-day give the world a clear
demonstration of the case; we will put forth an energetic demand for
mediation or arbitration; we want to raise a strong protest against an
easy or an intentional sufferance of the catastrophe. In all the
centers, where our message penetrates, opportunity is offered for all
the leaders and all the consenting masses to unite; and the word
uttered here may swell up into a plebiscite that will encompass the
earth. Is this your sentiment, Mr. Toker?—do you agree to this,
gentlemen?”
Toker, who sat opposite the speaker, bent across and shook both his
hands.
“Is that my sentiment! One more mine laid!”
Helmer, as soon as he returned to his room, sat down to write to Franka.
He felt compelled to speak to her. His heart was full to bursting. Yet
he did not know what he should write her. Only the necessity was upon
him to direct to her another of his “Brother Chlodwig” letters, after
the manner of those which he had sent to her at several of the serious
crises of her life. He began:—
“Sister Franka”—but hardly had his eyes rested on the dear name when he
was irresistibly impelled to add, “I worship thee!” Of course, it was
evident to him that he must tear up this sheet and throw it into the
waste-paper basket. But first he wanted to let his feelings exhaust
themselves to a certain degree in the same vein, and so he wrote
further:—“Yes, I worship thee! Sweet ... lovely ... the only one! I
press thee to my heart and kiss thee ... kiss thee....” (Oh, how this
word flamed on the paper—he wrote it a third time.) “Kiss thee on thine
eyelids, on thy parted lips! Franka, Franka, that another man will have
a right to do ... it is horrible!... I am wretched!... How can I endure
it? Let us not think of it. I kiss thee again, Franka, my Franka, mine,
mine, mine.... The dear lovely name, ‘Franka,’ in French, ‘Franche,’
isn’t it? Franchetta, donna idolatrata! Frankie, my own darling! Dost
thou suspect what bliss thou hast to dispose? Dost thou know also....”
This brought him to the end of the page. He did not turn the sheet over,
but tore it up and flung it into the basket. Then he put another sheet
before him, sat for some time buried in thoughts, and then began again
to write. This was to be the actual letter which he would send:—
FRANKA GARLETT!
Again you stand at the turning of the ways and it is the privilege of
Brother Chlodwig to bring you a few words—words of blessing. To-day
you have withdrawn yourself apparently in order to think over the
crisis that affects your heart and your future. I do not have any
faith in that excuse of a headache! So it is forbidden me to talk with
you about the matter: therefore I am writing. It is, after all, more
agreeable for me to do so. If I first offer you my congratulations, it
will be possible for me to meet you more calmly. For I must confess
that I am deeply stirred. I should not have found the right attitude,
the right words, if I had been obliged to sit by your side at the
luncheon-table, knowing what I know, and appear calm and at my ease in
the presence of all those people, while inwardly I was more disturbed
than ever before in all my life.
Franka, do you remember? I was the first to give you the Valkyrie
consecration; you received from my hands the shield and the spear.
These weapons have certainly to-day become a burden to you, and yet
you perhaps feel a reproach from your conscience at the thought of
laying them down. Now I will be helpful to you, and I myself will put
forth my hand to relieve you of them. My noble Valkyrie, you have
gallantly battled and have won the victory—it is enough! Be
henceforth—and be unregretfully—merely a joyous human being, just a
happy woman. A fire-spell flames around you, but there is nothing
fabulous about it—it is only Love....
By Victor Adolph’s side, you will, moreover, be able to work for the
loftiest human ends. For he himself stands now facing mighty tasks,
which he has energetically assumed and which you will be able, by your
influence, your advice, your sympathy, greatly to forward. Certainly,
the epoch which is approaching is pregnant with fate—so much explosive
material has been heaped up, and yet wisdom enough also has been
collected to hinder the explosion, enough also to conduct the forces
on hand from destructive to beneficent uses. Your betrothed will help
in this work and you will help him. Is not that a proud destiny?
But, above all, let it be a beautiful, gladsome destiny! Smile, be
rapturous, live, be crowned with roses.
CHLODWIG.
Helmer folded the sheet and thrust it into an envelope. One might judge
from the contents of the letter that he did this with a sort of gentle
ceremoniousness; not at all: he did it grinding his teeth, with
fever-cold hands, with swift-beating pulses. Then he rang for his man
and ordered him to deliver the letter immediately.
Bruning entered the room simultaneously with the servant.
“Ah, I am glad to find you in, Helmer; I have been for a long time
anxious to have a sensible chat with you.”
Helmer did not share this longing; the call seemed to him highly
inopportune; but what else could he say than “Fine; I’m pleased to see
you. Sit down.”
Bruning made himself at home. “You don’t look quite up to concert-pitch,
old man? Evidently, you are right glad to have the whole affair over and
done with. I, too, am glad enough that it will be ended in a couple of
days. A good deal has been very interesting, but the whole effect is so
exotic and so extravagant. You know me—I can’t stand humbug. What’s your
plan? Where are you going from here?”
“Going back to Berlin. And you?”
“I am going to the Sielenburg. The old Countess Schollendorf invited me.
The Sielenburg really belongs to Miss Garlett, doesn’t it? And she has
still other estates? All of it might have been yours long ago if you had
been a bit clever. But you have let her get snapped away from you: every
one has seen that the German prince is after her.”
Helmer made a gesture of annoyance. “And you call this a sensible chat?”
“Well, then, let’s talk about other things. There is lots of news. Our
famous sportsman yesterday got a pair of wings fitted to him and fell
into the lake.”
“Regenburg? Was he drowned?”
“No, they fished him out. But if I know him, he will not rest until he
has flown round the Stefansturm. Ambition is a fine thing and especially
when, by satisfying it, one breaks his own neck and not other
people’s ... as ambitious statesmen are mighty apt to do. In their case
hundreds of thousands are in danger of their lives.”
“You have in mind the old-fashioned type of statesmen,” said Helmer,
shrugging his shoulders.
“Not by a long chalk.... I had especially in mind our Marchese Rinotti.
He will blossom out only in the future, and he will have nerve and
temperament enough to mow his way through hecatombs of victims in
perfect _sang-froid_ if it suits his plans. That belongs to his trade.”
“Times are changing, my dear Franz.... Nowadays, the national
helmsmen—whether princes or ministers—already begin to set their
ambition on being considered the guardians of the peace.”
“In their words and phrases ... but you are irretrievably naïf, my good
Chlodwig. Whoever is to be a genuine statesman must lie, must endeavor
to pull the wool over the eyes of the others. He contracts friendship
with other powers, not in the least out of good will toward his allies,
but to make common head against a third. He secretly stirs up enmities;
for he may get advantage from possible conflicts of others in which he
himself is not involved. In order to confirm and strengthen his own
power, he without any scruples drives rough-shod over all obstacles,
such as treaties, conventions, and the like: in short, he—”
“In short, he is a scoundrel!”
“Call it so. In popular parlance he is a genius. But don’t let us
dispute. Your kingdom is in the clouds. Only I fear you will soon get a
bad fall. Do you happen to be reading the news? Such things are under
way as—”
“Oh, I know perfectly well what is threatening; but I know also what
beckons. I have long given up discussing with you. It is remarkable how
two men, classmates and comrades in childhood and in the early days of
youth, can so grow apart in their views of life. And neither of us is
stupid!”
“The difference is this—you are intellectual and I am prudent.”
“I hate the word ‘prudent.’ It sounds cold and harsh: it has no uplift.”
“That I grant you, my dear pinion-poet! I am a sober, matter-of-fact
man. As such let me tell you a couple of incidents from real life. You
must know that the two interesting widows, to whom I introduced you
lately—that impetuous Countess Solnikova and that gentle Annette
Felsen—have been having a great experience during the last two days.
Romances are brought to a climax here with amazing rapidity ... perhaps
for the reason that we have here, as it were, only a week’s respite. Now
the countess has been making a little flight with your Polish
composer—not a flight in the figurative, but in the actual, sense of the
word. For you see they hired a fine aërotaxi and in it flew over the
mountains: the wind drove them into a deserted region and they had to
spend the night in a shed.... There is no need of harboring any
suspicions about it. And as regards Annette Felsen she became regularly
engaged to our Machiavelli yesterday.”
“Is that so?” said Helmer, with mild interest. “Yes,” he added rather to
himself, “romances come to a climax here with great rapidity.”
At the very door of his hotel, Prince Victor Adolph met General Orell,
who came to him in great haste.
“At last, Your Royal Highness,” he exclaimed; and added reproachfully,
“You went out without my escort!”
“I don’t want always to trouble you, dear Orell.”
“A telegram has just come for Your Royal Highness.”
Victor Adolph, surprised, took the dispatch and tore open the envelope.
He was evidently startled. The dispatch was from his father:—“Your
presence here is imperatively needed in a highly important political
emergency, affecting you personally. Come by next train.”
“If possible we must leave this very day. Please, General, find what
time the trains start and bring me the information to my room. I will
precede you.”
As soon as he reached his room, he threw himself down into his
easy-chair, and read the dispatch a second time. Evidently it concerned
that eventuality of the throne ... then he must obey. Besides, he would
necessarily in any case obey such a peremptory command of his father and
king. Yet how inconveniently it came.... That other great
eventuality—his relations with Franka—was still in the air—he had not as
yet received her answer, and she knew nothing of the difficulties that
had to be surmounted. To depart now! Truly, too many complications....
General Orell brought the time-table. The next, being also the last
train, left at five o’clock in the afternoon. It was now one,—time
enough for making preparations and for a farewell call upon Franka. He
felt he must speak with her. He took a hasty luncheon with Orell. Then
he returned to his study and put his papers in order. He wrote to Toker,
explaining his sudden departure and promised to keep his task in mind.
He also addressed a few cordial lines to Helmer.
Now the next thing was to go to Franka. What should he say to her? If
she accepted his proposal,—and he really had no doubt that she
would,—the engagement could not possibly be made public—certainly not at
this time, when the question of the accession to the throne was still
undecided: it would be the most unsuitable moment to anger his father.
His choice would anger not only his father, but the whole clique. He was
well aware of that. What a lunatic world! What a compulsion! Under other
circumstances, he would have been more than willing to renounce all the
prerogatives of his rank, in order, without further dissimulation, to
follow the dictates of his heart as a private citizen. But the question
for him did not merely concern an empty title and the insignificant
gratifications connected with it; it was perhaps a question of an actual
position of power in which he could do immeasurable public service. Even
if he did not attain the crown, it would nevertheless be necessary to
retain his rank and his influence for the furtherance of the mission
entrusted to him by Toker. If he now should fall out with his family and
the people of his own class, how could he then carry on a propaganda
among them for the objects of the conspiracy? It was a complicated
situation—no single direct aim for his duties and desires. But supreme
in his heart, his fancy, his very blood, was still the image of the
lovely Franka, and there was the hot desire to hold her in his arms.
With quick steps and a mind deeply disturbed, he covered the short
distance back to the Rose-Palace. He found the door to Franka’s
apartments open; the anteroom was empty, and he knocked at the salon
door and entered.
Frau von Rockhaus came to meet him: “Oh, Your Royal Highness....”
“May I speak with Fräulein Garlett?”
“Franka is not at home. How sorry she will be—”
“No, no, my dear lady, she must not be denied to me.... I must speak
with her—it is too important.”
“On my word of honor, she is not in. She went out a quarter of an hour
ago with Miss Toker. She did not go down to the déjeuner, and so Miss
Toker came to see what had become of her and persuaded her to take a
drive—the fresh air would do her good.”
“Then I will wait till she returns.”
“The two ladies will not be back before five o’clock. Their intention
was to go to a place of resort, quite a distance away.”
“What was the name of the place?”
“I do not remember the name.”
Victor Adolph suppressed a curse. This was too unfortunate. So, then, he
would have to leave the town without seeing her again.... He begged
permission to write a few lines for the young lady. Frau Eleonore
conducted him to the writing-table, and provided him with paper. He
began to write, but his hand trembled so violently that the letters ran
together, and he could not collect his thoughts. He threw the pen aside,
crumpled up the sheet, and arose: “I prefer to write at home,” said he,
and hastily took his departure.
In the quiet of his own room, he managed, after much consideration and
some false beginnings, to compose the following message:—
GNÄDIGES FRÄULEIN!
As I have not as yet received a consenting answer to my question, I do
not venture to use any more intimate address. Frau von Rockhaus will
tell you that I came to see you. But she does not know how unhappy it
made me to miss you. A telegram from my father—which I inclose—compels
me to leave Lucerne by the five o’clock train. It is terrible to me
not to have had a chance to see you and talk with you before my
departure. I know that you are to remain in Lucerne for three or four
days longer. I hope sincerely that I can return—unless you forbid me.
In any case, wherever you are, pray let me know the place where I may
get the answer from you that will decide my fate.
I still owe it to you to explain my circumstances and the conditions
which these circumstances impose upon me. This I can do only by word
of mouth. But I will repeat in writing what I said yesterday from an
overflowing heart: I love you and ask you to be my wife!
VICTOR ADOLPH.
Address: Royal Palace ——.
When Franka had returned from her excursion with Gwendoline, she found
the two letters. She read and re-read them, first hastily, then
deliberately, weighing every word and trying to find between the lines
what had gone forth from the hearts of the senders. From Victor
Adolph’s—although the conclusion of it confirmed the greatest proof of
love that a man can give a woman: the offer of his hand—there seemed to
emanate a cool breath; from Helmer’s, on the other hand,—although in it
he gave her away to another,—came forth something like a warm caress.