FRANKA DECIDES HER FATE
The next morning, Helmer had arranged to be at Franka’s at half-past
eleven. After the American’s address, she had retired, and in bidding
him goodnight, she had asked Helmer to come to see her the following
morning. It was to be the last day of the Rose-Week, and she desired to
consult with him about the journey and other plans for the immediate
future. She had long been accustomed to ask Brother Chlodwig’s advice at
the crucial moments of her life.
About nine o’clock in the morning, Helmer left the house to take his
last walk to his favorite spot. He looked forward not without anxiety to
the promised call upon Franka. The self-control which it cost him in
repressing the ebullition of his feelings would be put to a severe test
once more. For the moment, it impelled him to seek that forest quietude
where he had already spent so many dreamy hours with Franka’s image
before his eyes.... But then she was, if not his Franka, at least not as
yet another’s.
It was a clear summer day; but in the forest, shady and cool; especially
in that place where Helmer was accustomed to retire, the impression of
freshness was intensified by the murmuring brook and by a spring which
burst forth from a mossy rock and ran foaming and bubbling down in a
series of little waterfalls. Through the lofty, thick tree-tops the
sun’s rays could scarcely make their way, but here and there gleams of
light fell golden along the tree-boles, making circlets on the ground
and kindling sparks in the pellucid waters of the brook and the spring.
Helmer selected a spot at the edge of a little wood-encircled meadow,
abounding in flowers and tall grasses, and sat down at the foot of a
lofty oak tree. For a time he let his thoughts run on and drank in the
sweetness of the peaceful forest. Then he took out his notebook. He felt
the impulse to write a few verses which might perpetuate the mood which
this modest idyl had produced in his mind—a mood of calm enjoyment of
nature, commingled with the sorrow of love’s renunciation.
But before he had written a line, he looked down the path by which he
had come and saw a figure, clad in white, approaching. Was it possible?
He sprang up and hastened to meet her.
“Franka!”
Yes, it was she. Chance had not brought her to that spot. She also had
felt the call of the forest, and she had seen Helmer a hundred paces
ahead of her slowly strolling along. “Let him be my guide,” she had said
to herself, and followed him, not diminishing the distance between them.
Now he reached his goal; she saw him sit down in the grass and prepare
to write; by this time, however, she had caught up with him, and now
they were face to face. She stretched out her hand in greeting.
“How fine that we should meet here! We can have our little consultation
now. It is far more lovely than in the house.”
Chlodwig controlled his inward emotion and offered her his arm: “Shall
we not walk a little farther? I will take you to a place where we can
get a wonderfully fine view.”
“No, no; let us stay here; you have chosen a perfectly beautiful spot.
You sit down where you were, under that tree, and I will find a place
near.... I just love to sit in the grass.”
He required no second bidding and led her to the oak. There he installed
her where he had been, so that she could lean her back against the tree,
and he threw himself down at full length at her feet. Supporting himself
on his elbow he leaned his chin on his hand and gazed up at her.
She was dressed wholly in white: also the shoes on her little feet
peeping out from under her skirt were white. She took off her hat. As
she had become somewhat heated by the walk her cheeks and lips glowed
and she looked remarkably young. Her eyes rested on Chlodwig’s face. How
could she have ever regarded him as ugly? An expression of sorrow
trembling about his lips gave his features a noble pathos; and a gentle
affectionateness was expressed in his eyes—certainly the reflection of
his chief characteristic—goodness. He also had taken off his hat: she
now noticed, for the first time, how very thick and wavy was the
short-cropped hair on his head.
He was the first to speak: “Well, what now? Is this to be our parting
hour? Are our ways to separate now, forever?”
“Separate!... for always?... Certainly not.... Helmer, answer me one
question. Until now, you have always talked with me about myself, never
about your own life, about your endeavors and wishes. If I did not know
you from your ‘Schwingen,’ I should scarcely have had a glimpse into
your soul.”
“What do you want to ask, Franka?”
“It is not a very discreet question, but I want to know one thing....
Are you ... have you a ... have you any ties, that bind you?”
“You mean a betrothed, a sweetheart? No, I am free from such ties.”
“Then you are heart-free?”
“Did I say that? For God’s sake, let us talk about you again—not about
me. The question now concerns your fate, your future—”
Franka nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, that is the question.”
“Then let us talk about it. Shall you remain in Lucerne? Shall you wait
here for the return of the prince, or shall you go back to Austria, and
is he to come and find you there? That would seem more fitting.”
“Would seem more fitting....” repeated Franka in a low tone,
abstractedly. It was as if she were thinking of something else and
repeated mechanically what had been said, only in order to say
something.
“Shall you go to one of your estates?” continued Helmer. “The château on
your Moravian property, for example, would make a fine setting.”
“A setting for what scene? Would you like to come to my Moravian
property, too, Helmer?”
He shook his head vigorously. Franka proceeded:—
“In the forest skirting the garden, you would find places similar to
this: there also flows a brook; there also springs gush out of the
moss-covered stones.”
She pulled off her glove and laid her slender white hand on Chlodwig’s
shoulder: “Will you go with me to my Moravian château?”
He shrank under the touch. “I? I should not dare to; I could not.”
“Why not?” And she increased the pressure on his shoulder.
There was no help for it—the impulse was stronger than he. He seized the
dear hand and kissed it passionately on the palm which he pressed to his
face. Then he sprang to his feet and leaned against the tree under which
Franka was sitting. He looked down upon her as she had just before
looked down on him. Her features betrayed no sign of anger—on the
contrary, they were brightened by a gentle smile.
“You ask why I cannot come, why I dare not—very well, I will tell you. I
wanted to hide it from you forever, but now you must know it—I love you,
Franka! I have always loved you from the first hour. But always you have
been and are the unattainable, the unapproachable! Even if the high
destiny to win you had fallen to no one else, I should never have dared
raise my desires to your starry distance.... I knew you would sometime
be another’s, and when such a brilliant and worthy suitor drew near you,
I almost made it easier for him. But now, when Fate has actually brought
to you what I had dreamed might be yours, I am the prey of wild
jealousy.... If you knew what I have suffered during the past days.... I
shall fight it down, I shall certainly conquer it, but I must avoid your
presence and I dare not be the witness of his happy love:—that would
drive me mad! Since this adoration which I have kept for years like a
religion, so to speak, has been goaded by jealousy, such a fire, such a
fierce, agonizing craving has taken its place.... Oh, I am confessing
too much.... Why do you let me speak so, Franka?—Why do you look at me
with that strange smile?... Am I ridiculous?... That must not be! My
love is not a funny thing.... It comes to me as too great, too sacred!
When we shall be separated, and when years pass, it may change—and I
hope it will—into warm friendship again. Then you can summon me ... to
your royal court.... I shall keep my courage.... I am no sentimental boy
who goes to destruction or commits suicide because of disappointment in
love. I have my art and great tasks still beckon to it, and I still have
a mission to fulfill.... But now, now, Franka, I am profoundly
unhappy.... What self-control I have to exercise, not to seize you and
for once, only once, hold you close in my arms, only once press my
lips....”
Franka stood up. Chlodwig raised his hands imploringly:—
“No, do not hasten away; be assured.... I know what is due to you. Never
must you think of Brother Chlodwig with regret or anger.”
But Franka had no thought of escaping. With the enigmatical smile still
on her lips, she came quite close to him, flung both arms around his
neck, and with a little cry hid her face on his heart. Something like an
electric shock went through him. He pressed her to his heart:—
“Franka, thou only one, thou great-hearted, thou generous....” he
stammered.
It seemed to him that this was a gift which she was offering him in
token of farewell—the indelible remembrance of a blissful moment. As he
held her there in his arms, a cuckoo’s note sounded in the distance.
Franka raised her head as if to listen; then her lover’s lips found
hers.
Twelve times the cuckoo called; when he ceased, Franka released herself.
She sank down into her former place in the grass, and with a gesture
invited Helmer to sit by her side.
“Now let us talk, Chlodwig,” she said; “now let us make plans for the
future!” And she snuggled up close to his shoulder. “Now all doubts are
solved: now the world belongs to us—this beautiful, splendid world!...”
He grew dizzy. “Franka, how am I to understand this?”
“How?” She laid her hand in his—“That I am thine forever.”
“Franka—is it possible? The Unattainable, the Unapproachable will be my
own, my wife?”
“Aye, that she will.”
“And the prince?”
“I had not accepted his hand. I shall write him a line to-day:—‘My heart
is not free’!”
“Because it belongs to me?”
“Yes, to you, Chlodwig!”
“I cannot realize the joy of it!”
He wanted to kiss her again, but she evaded it: “Only when the cuckoo
calls,” she said, laughing. “Now we must make our plans.”
“Will you not regret it? Will not Victor Adolph be in despair?”
“I think not. It will more likely be a relief to him; for the sacrifice,
the hindrances ... all that sort of thing has been a burden to him, and
hurt my pride. I want the gift of myself to....”
“Insure absolute happiness, celestial bliss,” interrupted Helmer,
completing her sentence; “to make the man who receives this gift feel
like a king and be a Crœsus....”
“And do you feel all that, Chlodwig?”
“That and more besides than I can tell. You must know that speech has no
satisfactory expression, for our highest emotions—poets do their best to
compass it, and therefore they strive by means of rhyme and rhythm to
give pinions to speech—but it is all in vain.”
“Still I am going to try,” said Franka, “to describe how I feel: without
rhythm and without rhyme, perhaps not even very coherently; but you will
certainly understand me. It belongs to my treasure of happiness, this
knowledge, that you understand and always will understand what I feel in
the deepest depths of my soul. And I understand thee, my poet, my
teacher, my beloved. So then, listen, thou who art wont to speak in
figures; with two little pictures I can give the whole enigma of my
happiness: a haven and a chest. The haven is—”
The explanation was interrupted: for once more and this time much nearer
the cuckoo began to call. At the same instant Helmer’s kiss was glowing
on her mouth. After the third note, the cuckoo ceased. Franka released
herself, but the complaisant bird began again, and when he ceased the
second time, Helmer permitted his tremulous but willing prisoner to
escape from his arms.
“You see, Love has far more intelligible means of expression than words;
but now go on with what you were going to say: the haven is—”
Franka drew a tremulous sigh and passed her hand over her
forehead. “Yes, I know—the haven is the sweet security of being
protected.—Whatever may come—I am safe!”
“And the chest?”
“Oh, yes, the chest?—that is as yet firmly locked ... but I have got the
key. Treasures are in it, that I am sure of—bills of exchange, letters
of credit on the great bank of the future. We two united!... Just think
of all that we can draw upon it for all the great and little joys of
life even till old age! We who are so congenial, traveling together,
working together, furnishing a home together....”
“A home which will perhaps embrace more than two!” suggested Helmer.
“... Living together—the joys and the sorrows that when transformed into
recollections we can store away in the chest. But as yet I have not
opened it. Further treasures are hidden there—I do not as yet know
them ... glowing red rubies which I have never adorned myself with. Yet,
quite lately, an inkling of it has been disclosed to me by one....”
“One? Who?” demanded Helmer, with new-awakened jealousy.
“Who?” She smiled. Then, deliberately and in a whisper: “The cuckoo.”
“Oh, thou—” And the answer was just as if the bird had again uttered his
enticing call. Through the tree-tops sighed a gentle breeze which, laden
with the perfume of spicy herbs and ripe strawberries, fanned and cooled
the glowing cheeks of the lovers.
“Now, then,” exclaimed Franka, after she had again freed herself, “let
us make our plans.”
“But first let me say something.... Also in figures—you know my
weakness—and if at this moment the pictures did not rise up before
me....”
“Then you would be no poet! But why invent at a moment when reality is
so super-earthly?”
“Super-earthly certainly, but not super-cosmic. Whoever feels and makes
any one feel so happy, so superhuman, works in the service of a cosmic
factory. There a magnificent material is woven from star to star, from
eternity to eternity out of fine glittering threads. These threads are
called ecstasies, pleasures, joys, the very greatest and likewise the
very tiniest joys. Every living thing experiencing this serves as a
shuttle for this loom.”
“And what becomes of the material, oh, my metaphorical poet?”
“God makes his royal mantle out of it.”
“Lovely!” exclaimed Franka. “Still,” she added, shaking her head gently;
“you employ very old material for hewing your images: God as king—in
that figure I do not recognize my bold modern thinker.”
“Solid material is required for hewing images. The new thoughts are for
the most part as yet lacking in consistency, gaseous, so to speak; one
cannot make any images out of them. But, dearest, let us not talk any
more about generalities now, when we are breathing in the midst of such
concrete beauty touching us both; at this moment when everything lying
outside of ‘thee and me’ sinks into nothingness. For heaven’s sake, let
us not indulge in subtleties and let us not be deep! We have the right
to lose ourselves in the regions of the higher folly! We have the still
higher right to be—silent!”
“I will not be silent,” cried Franka. “I must shout it out that I am
happy, happy, happy!” And in saying this she flung her arms up into the
air. “Oh how many times have I heard that word, read it, spoken it,
and—to-day, for the first time, I know what it means.”
Approaching voices and steps were heard. Their moment of blessed
solitude was past.
Franka hastily snatched up her hat from the ground. “Come, let us go
before these odious persons find us here.”
“May the cuckoo fly off with them!” cried Helmer in vexation.
“But, Chlodwig,” exclaimed Franka reproachfully, “how can you put such a
burden on our beloved bird?”
“You are right! Holy cuckoo, forgive me!”
“Now, you know, holiness is not the right term for him. I have heard
many things to his prejudice ... he is said to have no family
sentiment....”
“Oh, there, he does not need Philistine virtues. He is a kind of forest
magician and consequently superior to civil morals.”
“Just as a poet laureate is superior to provincial rulers?”
Thus laughing and jesting, they walked for a while side by side; but
once their eyes met, and a sudden earnestness spread over their
features; on their silent lips trembled something akin to pain; they had
simultaneously discovered that between them hovered something like the
spirit of consecration, awe-inspiring, something like an emanation from
the mystical source of being:—Love!—something under whose breath jests
and laughter seem as inappropriate as under the breath of that other
solemn mystery—Death. What they had seen in each other’s eyes permeated
them with a thrill of devotion, and they walked for a long distance in
silence; yet by their arms they still exchanged the pressure significant
of affection.
Only when their path turned into a frequented place in Lucerne was this
magic mood dispelled. They came to an aeroplane-hangar.
Franka paused:—
“Chlodwig, grant me one wish—let us take a little air-trip together. I
have never been in an aeroplane and I should like to make my first
ascent with you; and to-day especially ... this very moment.... I feel a
great thirst for the heights, don’t you?”
“I? No. My most burning thirst you have—I mean the cuckoo has—quenched!
But if it would give you a pleasure—I am ready for it. Let us fly!”
He made the arrangements with one of the pilots, and a few moments later
the machine was speeding up with its passengers into the air. Franka at
that moment experienced a powerful shock rather psychical then physical.
Set free from the ground, hovering free, with reasonable velocity their
aeroplane swept up at a height of about ten metres. It was a quite
peculiar new sensation. Suddenly, however, the machine began to mount
and mount; not perpendicularly, but still preserving its forward motion,
until it had reached a height of some hundred metres. Franka could not
repress a cry. She had the impression that the aeroplane remained still
while everything else was sinking down. Into what depths fell the earth!
Ever wider became the view of the country gliding away beneath them, and
ever tinier little points—now trees, houses, like toys; men, like
ants—juggled together on it.
Still higher went their flight. The mountains shrunk into flatness and
finally everything seemed to be a plain with black streaks—the forests;
a white pool—the lake; and winding ribbons—the roads. And as Franka was
not far-sighted, the whole picture swam in her vision into an empty gray
plain. She recalled her dream and that terrifying feeling of being alone
in space. But in sooth, she was not alone: her beloved was by her side.
“Put your arm around me,” she besought him. And as soon as that firm
strong support went obliquely down from her shoulder embracing her
waist, it seemed to her exactly as in that dream—the blessed sense of
security that one is held and protected ... only this time with the
difference, that she now knew who that one was, and she thanked Heaven
that it was this one and not the other. She closed her eyes and bent her
head back. She looked so pale that Chlodwig was alarmed, and bade the
pilot to glide down and land them. Then Franka opened her eyes:—
“No, no, not yet—it is splendid!”
Her panic had vanished, and the peculiar fascinating intoxication of the
flight through the upper air had seized her. “Do not land yet! Tell him
to go in a wave-motion—up, down, up—down so that I may feel the
sensation of flying, that I may know that we are flying.”
“Aren’t you frightened, my love,—you are so pale—”
“No, not afraid—only this new experience is so surprising, so
overpowering—it is the fulfillment of a dream. Isn’t it delightful?”
“Oh, yes, the human race might, indeed, be proud of the heights which it
has attained, if at the same time it had not remained so abject! Yet
have patience—our watchword still is—‘_Excelsior!_’”
After another quarter of an hour, in which they had their heart’s
content of mounting and descending, of gliding and curving, the pilot
directed his aerial car to the landing-place and the two happy
passengers dismounted.
They proceeded to the Rose-Palace on foot. Frau Eleonore came to meet
them, as they walked along the terrace.
“At last!” she exclaimed; “I was beginning to be concerned about
you—lest something had happened, Franka.”
“I can’t deny that something has happened to me!”
“In Heaven’s name, what?”
“You will find out soon enough. Let us go up!”
She relinquished Helmer’s arm and took Frau Eleonore’s instead.
“Good-bye for now, Chlodwig; we shall meet at luncheon. I am going to
write Prince Victor Adolph now. Come, Eleonore!” And she pulled her
companion toward the entrance.
Helmer bowed and went off in another direction.
As soon as she reached her salon, Franka threw her hat and parasol down
and with a long, long breath sank into an easy-chair.
Frau Eleonore took her place facing her.
“Dear Franka, forgive me, but”—she was at a loss for the right words—“I
know you do not like me to be preaching ... but don’t you think that
such walks with Herr Helmer.... As far as I am concerned, it is
nothing.... I know what an old harmless friendship means ... but don’t
you think that perhaps the prince....”
“Oh, thank you for reminding me of the prince—I must write to him. Has
any telegram come for me?”
“No, but here is a letter from the Sielenburg.”
Franka took the letter and tore open the envelope. “From Tante
Albertine.... I can’t make out the wriggly handwriting very well. Please
read the letter for me, Eleonore, will you?”
“Willingly. But what I said just now ... you are not vexed with me, are
you?”
“Really, I did not notice what you said....”
“You seem very much disturbed. You have not told me as yet what happened
to you.”
“Later, later—please read the letter first. Let us see what the good
auntie has to say.”
Frau Eleonore read:—
MY DEAR CHILD!
I have only just returned to the dear old Sielenburg, but I sit down
to write you a few lines to tell you that we made the journey without
mishap. Dear Adele is very much done up, to be sure, and quite cross;
the trip did not gratify her at all. I, too, am much pleased to be at
home again. Here we get so much of what we missed while away; for
instance, respectful treatment by people. Here we are addressed with
proper terms once again: “Kiss your hand,” or, “Saving your
grace”—that to Adele—or, “at your command,” while the Swiss are so
unmannerly; they called us “Madam,” and on the train one conductor
spoke to me as “a woman”! It was, indeed, out of politeness; he pushed
a passenger to one side, saying, “Let the woman pass.” I wanted to
tell him that I was nothing of the sort, but one can’t enter into
conversation with such clowns.
We had to stay another day after our “P.P.C.” call on you—Coriolan got
the wrong tickets, and so we heard Helmer after all. It was so strange
to see Uncle Eduard’s former secretary up there among the celebrities.
He was so quiet at the Sielenburg, as if he could not count up to
five. I could not make out what he said—it was all such a
medley—exaggerated. He was always eccentric. He even presumed to cast
his eyes on you. Who knows how it would have ended if I had not—for
your advantage, you must know—upset his calculations and informed
Uncle Eduard in good time. I am proud of that even to-day. Take care
that he does not try his little game again; it might injure you with
the prince.
Frau Eleonore stopped her reading—“I agree with Fräulein Albertine about
that.”
Franka shrugged her shoulders with annoyance:—“You must not be proud of
that.”
Frau Eleonore went on with the letter:—
You ought to hear Cousin Coriolan’s opinion of Helmer—for he has a
correct judgment and is a gentleman through and through. He was not at
all enthusiastic over our stay at Lucerne; he declares he will never
again be induced to take such an exotic journey. Really, I had a
pretty good time; it was such a complete change; but I shall doubly
enjoy the quiet here. What pleased me most in Lucerne was the conquest
you made. Be very wise....
“Is there any more of that?” interrupted Franka.
“Four pages more.”
“Then we will leave it until by and by: Now I am going to write to the
prince.... Eleonore, on the whole, I prefer to tell you now: I am
betrothed.”
“Oh, you are?” exclaimed Frau Eleonore, her face radiant with joy. “And
why did you delay telling me till now? What good fortune! Only it is a
shame that he had to go away.”
“My dear friend! You are under a wrong impression. Victor Adolph is not
my betrothed....”
“Not the prince!” Her eyes grew gloomy, “Who then?”
“It is not very hard to guess.”
It certainly was not difficult, and Frau Eleonore was well aware who the
fortunate suitor was. In spite of the disappointment which it brought
her, she was too clever, and also too well disposed to Franka to betray
any dissatisfaction. To be sure, her dream of having the position of a
lady-in-waiting at court was dispelled, but she concealed her
disappointment:—“Chlodwig Helmer—is it, then?” she said. “Well, if you
love him, Franka, I wish you joy with all my heart.”
“Yes, I love him.”
Half an hour later, the two ladies went down to the Toker luncheon.
Franka had in the mean time written the letter to Victor Adolph:—a
perfectly candid confession that she had already given her heart to
another man, and, moreover, her assurance that she perfectly well
realized what obstacles would have been put in the way of his life-work
and his lofty position if she had accepted his impulsive and far too
unpremeditated offer.
Helmer came forward to meet Franka as she entered the dining-room. The
separation which had lasted at the most about an hour seemed to them
both frightfully long, and the joy of seeing each other again
accelerated the beating of their hearts. They sat at table side by side
as usual. After the last course, Helmer asked Franka whether they should
keep their happiness to themselves for a while, or communicate the news
to the Brotherhood of the Rose. “Oh, let them know about it! I should
like to have it shouted over the housetops!”
Helmer stood up and tapped on his glass.
“Hear, hear!” cried Toker. “In spite of the regulation forbidding formal
toasts at this table, our poet of the pinions seems desirous to offer
some one’s health. Well, to-day is our last meeting—give your eloquence
full rein, Mr. Helmer.”
“I do not intend to make a speech. What you are going to hear from me,
Mr. Toker and Miss Toker, and all of you, brethren and sisters under the
token of the Rose, is merely a bit of family news. I have the feeling
that we all, during this delectable week, have become a sort of happy
family, and therefore I hope for your interest when I tell you that this
morning Franka Garlett and I were betrothed.”
Gwendoline rushed to Franka and gave her a tumultuous embrace. After the
confusion of the universal congratulations had somewhat subsided, Toker
tapped three times on the table with the handle of his knife in order to
obtain a hearing:—
“Under such extraordinary circumstances it is not only permitted, but it
is obligatory upon us to offer a toast. Let us greet it as a good omen
that in our serious community, gathered to enlarge the general realm of
High Thinking and thence of human welfare, two such noble hearts have
joined to win personal happiness by their love. Let us greet this as an
omen for the development of the coming race: if the custom obtain that
the champions of the most brilliant ideas, the possessors of the
greatest talents, in a word, the most splendid specimens of the human
race, come together as here, and fall in love, as our highly honored new
couple have done, and if they, as we hope even for this same bridal
pair, increase and multiply, then, after a few more generations, even
more fortunate results of careful breeding will be seen than our friend
Luther Burbank has obtained with his gigantic cabbages. Therefore,
proceed, Chlodwig and Franka, and found a home. That is, after all, the
most beautiful and most satisfying happiness to be found on
earth—however far and high our thoughts may soar and our exploits may be
carried, let us provide a warm, safe place of calmness and of love to
which we are all entitled.
“We men have in these days imitated the most magnificent prerogative of
the birds—the art of flight. But let us never forget that other example
which these masters of heights and distances give us—the nest!”
FINALE
On this final evening of the Rose-Festival, all the guests were
assembled on the platform, the host in their midst. It had been
determined that on this last evening there should be no long addresses
by individual speakers, but that all the members of the Rose Order,
whether their voices had been heard during any of the sessions or not,
should make brief speeches to the audience: speeches in which, if
possible, by a few short sentences, each individual should declare what
was his loftiest aim in life and what he would most of all wish to have
carried away as a message to his fellow-men from that far-sounding
tribune. John Toker announced his programme to the public and added:—
“We regard this last evening of ours as a special opportunity for us to
communicate with the outside world and to grasp in compact form the
things that have been revealed to us during this Rose-Week.
“I will use this opportunity to comment on what we heard yesterday from
the mouth of my young fellow-countryman. He spread out before us a whole
cargo of precious gifts; he handed us a gigantic ingot of gold and said:
‘Go hence and coin it.’
“Now the question arises: ‘How?’ Above all, a new valuation is required
for the new coins which are to be minted. The whole system, the whole
principle on which the social life of the present time is built up, must
be invalidated so as to give place to another system, another principle.
Economical and political intercourse of men with one another at the
present time still rest on robbery, imposture, fraud, distrust,
unscrupulous extermination of competitors, and all this supported by the
spirit of envy, which runs through the whole gamut from ill will to
hatred. And do you know what we need in order to coin the new
currency?—the spirit of good will. And that is certain to come. It will
not create the new social intercourse, but it will grow out of the soil
of the changed circumstances, as ill will flourishes in the morass of
to-day.
“Inestimable is what has been given to mankind by the unlimited control
of the powers of nature, creating wealth and labor; all the forces which
may be spent in doing mutual harm, in mutual attack and defense, in
deceiving, in betraying, in robbing, in destroying one another—all these
forces are now to be free for the common task of coining that ingot of
gold into current coin.
“It will be no small trouble, no brief work, to reorganize the world on
this quite changed principle. Stupidity, routine, and malignity will
resist for a long time; but just as radium can annihilate microbes, so
will the radiant element of the human spirit, aroused to comprehension,
annihilate the microbes of malignity. We shall become healthy,
physically and spiritually.
“I am glad that the awakening call, the shout of the herald, rings forth
from here. The tidings of triumph are to sound back from the victorious
van; a vast new country is ours; we must make it fertile; let us take
possession!
“But to do so, the old methods and the old utensils are useless; we must
first train the whole race till it is fit for its new destiny. Practical
work must be expanded in this direction. May all those to whom our
summons comes, clearly ringing, gird their loins to take hold of this
work! Domestic colonization, garden-cities, hygiene along the whole
line, extermination of the last vestige of illiteracy. And then, high
schools will be established for the nurture of High Thinking and
world-journals will be founded for its propaganda. And temples will be
built dedicated to the cult of good will.
“The problem must be worked out intensively, strenuously. It is not
sufficient that from here and there more ideas fly forth; ideas are all
right, for they are the seed from which things spring—but actually, what
now opens up before us consists already in things, and they demand to be
executed: above all, they want to be grasped. I intend to seize upon
them: as soon as I reach home, I intend to take measures to found the
free academy of High Thinking. May this become the mint which my young
friend requires for the store of gold which he displayed before our
eyes.
“And now shall the knights of my Wartburg have their chance to speak.
Let Wolfram von Eschenbach begin—I mean you, Mr. Helmer.”
Chlodwig stepped forward:—
“I should like once more to sum up in a single sentence—if possible in a
single word—the substance of my whole poetic dream, of my whole vision
of the future. But here I find an obstacle in the limitations of
language, for it has as yet no words for the coming things that now only
project their shadows and are attainable only by longing and by
forebodings. The word always comes into existence after the thing. The
thing follows the conception, and this in turn is followed by the
expression. For example—first there had to be a knight and the especial
nature of his bearing and of his sentiments had to be conceived before
the term ‘knightly’ was adopted.
“And thus before my vision stands the coming man—the man of the
heights—_der Höhenmensch_—whose qualities correspond to the magnificent
achievements which literally lift him above the clouds. What will be his
characteristic quality? The term for it does not as yet exist. For it
will not concern any peculiar quality already known to us, but rather a
combination of qualities to which will be added possibly one never
before discovered: the new combination will grow into a concept and the
concept will be grasped in one word—a word which will be as current
among our descendants and as clear to them as the word ‘knightly’ is to
us. I recently spoke of ‘goodness.’ This word, as it is used among us,
is far from expressing what my mind conceives of it. It is as yet, too,
incomposite. I should want to command a term in which, besides
‘goodness,’ much else would be understood—distinction, gentleness,
courage, good will, force, magnanimity—all in combination; and,
moreover, that soul-material which will come into activity by the new
impulses of the Age of Flying—this is to be the characteristic quality
of the ideal man of the future, but what its name will be, that we do
not know.
“How the ideals of spiritual greatness change may be seen in a single
example: Vico, the founder of the philosophy of history, who wrote at
the end of the seventeenth century,—hence not so very long ago,—thus
described the heroes: ‘They were to the highest degree rough, wild,
limited in intelligence, but possessing enormous power of imagination
and the liveliest passionateness; as a consequence of these qualities
they had to be barbarous, cruel, wild, proud, difficult to deal with.’
“That was the picture of hero-greatness which awakened the admiration of
earlier times. This admiration has not entirely died out, but it is
fading away, sinking out of sight, slowly changing into detestation.
Much that is barbarous still lives amongst us, but we try to deny it.
The word ‘barbarous’ has become a term of reproach. The man who knows no
pity does not seem to us worthy of regard; the wider the range of his
commiseration, the nobler is his heart. The good will of a noble soul
extends even to the dumb creation. He who cannot love a good, faithful
dog is not a worthy man, and whoever is cruel to an animal—how can I
express my detestation of him?—well, I will quote Hermann Bahr—‘Such a
person, whoever he be, I cannot regard as my kind.’ In the third
‘Kingdom’ to which our aspirations are soaring, there is no room for
barbarism.
“And now, if as our host desires, I must sum up in one phrase all that I
have brought to you here, then I say:—There is no High Thinking without
likewise Kind Thinking.”
“The man has a touch of the feminine in his make-up,” remarked some one
in the audience, disapprovingly.
The next speaker was Franka Garlett. With a smiling face, betraying the
gleam of her new happiness, she stepped forward: “You young girls,
listen to me!” she began. “You must not be alarmed, because I repeat my
appeal to you, that I am going to repeat my entire address. No, I am not
going even to make a resumé of it, but I am going to say something which
will interest all girls, all, all! There is a magic word which will not
find one of you indifferent: if it is spoken you must listen—joyfully or
woefully, with curiosity or with yearning, but never with
indifference ... and yet it is something quite simple, quite
commonplace. Truly, the one whom it concerns will find it unique, will
find it all-important, something world-convulsing—that world which is
our own little Ego. This thing has happened to me this morning—and I
cannot help myself—it fills me so—I must tell you, ye sisters of mine:—I
am betrothed.”
A flutter went through the hall. Among the inarticulate words also rang
out distinctly, “Congratulations!” and the question—“To whom?”
Franka’s face grew still more animated: “Thanks for the congratulations,
and, if I heard correctly, some one asked ‘To whom?’—a quite justifiable
curiosity: in such family chronicles we must find names. My chosen
husband is the poet of ‘Schwingen’—Chlodwig Helmer. And since he, as he
told you a moment ago, has a kind feeling for every worthy little
beastie, he will assuredly be kind to me.”
The speaker’s gayety communicated itself to the audience, and a wave of
laughter swept over the hall. But now her features took on a serious
expression and in altered voice she went on:—“But here another question
demands to be answered: How is it that I venture to speak of my own
little private affairs from this tribune where such lofty problems have
been treated and when a whole world is listening to me? I justify myself
thus: On this tribune I have advised the young persons of my own sex to
use their brains, to learn, to see clearly in scientific, social, and
political matters; even to take part in public affairs, and this has
certainly awakened in many minds the notion that woman, in doing so,
would suffer a loss in her affections and in her family relations; that
those young girls who might devote themselves to studies and callings
hitherto reserved for men alone, might be lost for love and domestic
happiness. On this very spot from which I have disseminated my
teachings, and before the very same listening world-audience, I now come
forward to combat that erroneous notion; not in words, but as a living
witness. The doctrine that ‘You are in the world to share in all
thought’ cannot be so very perilous since the exponent of it stands
here, happily betrothed.”
She bowed and went back to her seat, heartily cheered by the audience.
Now, one after the other, brief parting farewell addresses were made and
each speaker gave pregnant expression to his favorite and leading
thought. All these thoughts, without exception, were turned by different
ways in the one direction: _Excelsior!_
Then Toker announced that he would speak the final word, but first they
would enjoy the usual intermission. This was employed by the speakers
and the audience in unrestrained social intercourse. Here are a few
snatches of conversation:—
Bruning, hurrying up to Helmer:—“Most heartfelt and respectful
congratulations, my young genius! My old dream and good advice are
fulfilled. You have won her—the pretty heiress; you snatched her away
just in time from the prince who was so madly in love with her! Superb!”
“I shall have to withdraw my friendship from you, Franz! You have a
trick of blighting everything in bloom.”
“And you of talking in exalted figures. We shall not let our
twenty-years-old good-fellowship drop for that! There have to be
different kinds of owls!”
In a group of politicians:—
A. “Don’t you find that there is a little too much preaching of morality
to us during this Rose-Week? Of course we know that the destinies of the
nations are not fulfilled in accordance with moral laws, that they are
not conducted by ethical impulses, but that they obey economical
necessities.”
B. “Economical necessities? Yes, but not wholly so. One is usually
mistaken if one tries to reduce complicated phenomena to one single
factor. For instance: Did the crusades take place because of economic
causes?”
C. “I should like to make one observation. Morality is nothing else than
the result of the recognized conditions of collective life. When two or
more are dependent on one another, then the conduct which promotes their
welfare is elevated to the rank of a moral rule, and whatever impedes it
is proscribed as immoral. The nations have treated one another
unlovingly and immorally, because they have as yet no realization of
their interdependence. Have you, for instance, ever entered into any
ethical relationship with the inhabitants of Mars?”
In the corner where the two Russian widows were sitting with their
suitors, the marchese whispering in his soft fervid Italian:—
“Annette, gracious lady, what have you done to me? The blood is storming
through my veins as if I were a boy. I quite forget my advancing years.
You can make me forget everything.... I could even renounce my ambition
in order to give myself up forever to the sweet intoxication which I
find in your eyes. But no, just for your sake I will get as much glory
as I possibly can.... The man who is to be worthy of you must be like
the sun in the radiance of his glorious power, the head that rests in
your lap must be crowned with laurel. You, madonna, must be surrounded
with splendor, you must be raised to the highest rank so that all may
look up to you in worship and envy. A world must tremble before the man
who trembles before you.... There is no price which I would not pay, no
deed that I would not venture, no multitude that I would not sacrifice
relentlessly, merely to place one more pearl in your diadem, Monna
Anna.”
The little Baltic widow quivered under this avalanche of sweet-brutal
cinquecento phrases.
Baron Gaston de la Rochère came up and joined the group, putting an end
to this sentimental cooing:—
“I have just arrived. Am I very late? I don’t understand the English and
German speeches and the French guests present are distasteful to me. But
I came to look you up, for I must share my happiness with you. I have
just received by the evening mail some wonderful news from Paris. Just
imagine: things are coming to a climax. The Ministry—that bunch of
heretics—has fallen. Perhaps God will take his France under his
protection again. The situation is so threatening that external or
domestic war may break out any minute, and this is the favorable moment
to proclaim royalty. My friends write me that everything is all ready,
that even a part of the garrison is won over to swear fealty to the
standard of the king—in short, great events are impending. The genius of
my glorious country has awakened once more. Of course, you already know
all about these circumstances, Marchese di Rinotti?”
“Of course, I know what is taking place and what is proposed; but weeks
must elapse before anything decisive can come about. The men in charge
must reckon with the resistance of the democratic parties.”
“But the men in charge will act with vigor, Marchese.”
“Well, I hope so, Baron.”
“Oh, gentlemen,” said Vera Petrovna, beseechingly; “don’t be tedious;
pray don’t talk politics.”
Malhof accosted Franka and Helmer, who, arm in arm, were promenading up
and down the corridors. “Am I interrupting the gushing fountains of
love? You will have all your lives for that, and I must express my
surprise and delight. I am, indeed, a very old friend and admirer of
your betrothed, dear Helmer, and I have always desired her happiness....
How unexpectedly this came upon us! Yesterday evening, while they were
manipulating with radium on the platform, we three sat so cozily
together, and I had not the slightest idea of your being a bridal pair.
You played your cards mighty well, you young people!”
“Neither did we have the slightest idea,” protested the two in absolute
sincerity.
After the half-hour’s intermission, Toker again mounted the
platform—quite alone; his guests remaining below in the hall.
“It is my privilege,” he began, “to utter the last word in conclusion of
this our Rose-Week. I feel myself compelled to express before the whole
world my deepest thanks to the illustrious contemporaries who have come
at my call. And I must also thank you, my honored audience, for the
lively interest and the sympathetic reception which you have accorded
our offerings.
“But let us end our coöperation not with a discourse, but rather with a
deed. You all know that a war-cloud pregnant with storm is rising on the
horizon. We must not allow this well-worn metaphor to strengthen the
current impression that we have to deal with anything elementary; we
have to deal with human intentions, with the direction of human wills.
These can be paralyzed by counter-intentions, by the putting forth of
still stronger wills. Such an exercise of will-power has been created in
our circle: in order to make it efficient, we must use the apparatus of
wide publicity which is here at our service. Two statesmen, of
uncontested reputation in their service for promoting the organization
of peace in the Old World and the New, have drawn up a manifesto,
protesting against the letting loose of the war-demon which is planned
in various quarters, and at the same time pointing out the way in which
the conflict may be solved in an amicable manner. This manifesto has
been signed by the entire membership of the Rose Order, and at this
moment is being telegraphed to all regions of the world. If the masses
agree to it, it can grow into a hurricane of public opinion. I am not
going to delay you by reading the message, the paper which will now be
distributed through the hall contains its text. I also refrain from any
explanations; neither shall I ask you to vote. Only this I will say: If
this wish, this command, this storm-cry which goes forth from here is
obeyed, that is to say, if the approaching contest is submitted to
arbitration, and if the decision by force is given up, though, indeed,
this may not prevent the recurrence of dangers in the future, and not as
yet introduce a new political order—still, time will be gained. And that
is the main thing in this crisis. For in order to appreciate and to
apply the new treasures which of late have been won from nature, in
order to cultivate the lofty thoughts to which the human mind has
already begun to attain in its flights, and in order to transform in
accordance with these thoughts the intercourse, the laws, the opinions
of men, in a word, the whole social life, _time_ is above all required.
A time of peaceful, quiet development. If now a world-conflagration
should break out, the development would be not only delayed, but would
be set back enormously—instead of a lofty flight, we should have a
terrible fall! Once more a bed for the stream of hatred and horror and
destruction would be excavated, and this flood might carry away with it
all that has been so painfully constructed.
“One can formulate an idea of the consequences of such a conflagration
by hearing what H. G. Wells tells us in his ‘War in the Air.’ ‘Oh, a
piece of fiction, a romance of the future!’ Granted, it will all come
out differently. No one can take account of all the millions of
interweaving threads out of which the web of the future may be woven.
But the poet and the thinker, if he creates such pictures, does not at
all pretend prophecy. He does not predict that it will come in this way
or that: he only shows how under given conditions things must come, if
this way or that is chosen.
“So, then, we want to gain time!—time for the building-up of future
happiness, time to rescue men from the woe that threatens. Indeed, the
majority will not listen to the warning, the chiding, the aid-promising
voices ... these annoying calls only disturb them in their pursuits of
business, work, pleasure.... ‘Why don’t the birds of evil omen leave us
alone—let things take their course—what comes must come—merely let every
one see to it that he does his work where Fate puts him’ ... this is
about the way in which the passive resistance expresses itself; a
resistance against which all those who speak the warning words
constantly stumble. But they are not to be frightened away; they cannot
help themselves, they must speak.
“I will use a parable:—
“Let us imagine we are on a noble ship bound for the promised land. The
journey is long. There is much work and much amusement on board of the
ship. It must be steered and must be maneuvered; much promenading and
flirting and reading and feasting are carried on; all are busy and each
one thinks his work or his pleasures highly important.
“But the ship springs a leak. If help is not afforded, the proud vessel
must sink.
“It would not be difficult to get help. But the people refuse to see the
leak. Is it not natural that those who do see it should not weary in
calling for help? Is it not the height of unreason that the others
should leave the leak unheeded, so that they may not be disturbed in
their customary pursuits, and that they should zealously devote
themselves to steering and clearing the ship instead of trying first of
all to save it from sinking?
“Our civilization is such a ship, my honored fellow-passengers. Its
engines are working better all the time, its flags are flying ever more
triumphantly, swelling out with lofty thoughts. But it has a
leak—namely, the time antiquate régime of force: through this rent
annihilating floods pour in and threaten to draw it into the deep!
Therefore, every man on board and all hands to the repair of the damage!
“And when that has been accomplished—and it shall be accomplished!—then
onward, and ‘happy voyage!’”
THE END
=The Riverside Press=
CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS
U . S . A
------------------------------------------------------------------------
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
1. Silently corrected typographical errors and variations in spelling.
2. Archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings retained as printed.
3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.
4. Enclosed boldface font in =equals=.