When Thoughts Will Soar: A romance of the immediate future

by Bertha von Suttner

PRELUDE

Mr. John A. Toker, the American multimillionaire, flung down his newspaper in some excitement and became lost in thought.

The paragraph that had so agitated him read:—

“The sovereign expressed to Count Zeppelin his regret at being unable on this occasion to see the airship which, he was convinced, was destined to furnish the weapon of the heights in future wars.”

For more than an hour the little old gentleman remained absorbed in his reflections; then he seized pen and paper and made various notes. He was evidently drafting a rather complicated plan. He now and again ran his pen through what he had written and substituted other words. One sheet was filled with a list of names—the names of distinguished contemporaries; another with figures, apparently a schedule of estimated expenses, in which the individual items for the most part had five or six numerals.

Even after an hour the plan was not as yet near completion, but Mr. Toker was compelled to interrupt his labors in order to take up with other demands of the day. One of his secretaries, who had made a careful preliminary sifting of the letters and dispatches brought by the morning’s mail, came with such as he had found important enough to be called to his master’s attention.

Mr. Toker dictated various answers. When this correspondence was cleared away, a host of other affairs required his consideration:—business connected with the management of his property; reports from the many concerns in which he was interested; audiences with the foremen of his enormous landed estate, his farmers and agents. Moreover, the guests at the castle and the members of his family could not be neglected, and sport and exercise were necessary to maintain his physical elasticity, while for the satisfaction of his intellectual cravings reading in many fields had to be provided for—indeed, the multimillionaire frequently found it exasperating to realize that one man might be richer than others in money, but not in time; one may have thousands of dollars to spend every hour, but not more than sixteen waking hours to spend in a day.

“Money is a great help in accomplishing big things,” Mr. Toker used to say with a sigh, “but mostly those things require much time, and in this respect I feel that I am a very poor fellow.”

Several weeks passed without the American Crœsus being able to proceed with the elaboration of his project. But he carried round with him the idea that lay at the foundation of it. In his mind one thought gave birth to another; visions arose without any definite outlines; suggestions flashed through his brain, but served only as reminders of things that might later become clear.

When he again took up the notes that he had made, he canceled several names from the list and added new ones. It was a varied assortment of from thirty to forty of his contemporaries: Björnson, Maurice Maeterlinck, Eleanora Duse, Elihu Root, the American statesman; Madame Curie, the discoverer of radium; Nansen, the Arctic explorer; Prince Albert of Monaco, the oceanographic scientist; Tolstoï, Marconi, and many great men from the scientific world, who had won distinction as pathfinders in the domain of philosophy, sociology, history, and natural science.

He also went over the sheet with the numbers, and added a cipher in many cases. Thus, for example, the item of “Roses,” which had been set down at ten thousand francs, he increased to a hundred thousand. Moreover, the word “roses” frequently appeared in his notes, and the thought of those queenly flowers seemed especially to impress itself on his mind, for the pencilings which he made on the edge of the paper, as he strove to catch an idea, portrayed very clearly, even if inartistically, the forms of roses and rosebuds.

One sheet was filled with catchwords the meaning of which to one uninitiated would have been scarcely comprehensible: as, for instance, “Concentration and accumulation of forces. Motion through explosions. Agglomeration of scattered atoms. Energy radiating in all directions. Roses, roses ... the Power of Beauty. Subjugation of the forces of Nature. High flying. Revelations. New lights, new tones, new thoughts, moss roses....”

CHAPTER I
FRANKA GARLETT

A young girl stepped out of the gate of the Central Cemetery of Vienna. For almost eight weeks she had been going there to lay a few flowers on her father’s grave. That dearly beloved parent had been her only stay in this world, and he had been so unexpectedly and prematurely snatched away from her! Frank Garlett had reached only the age of forty-five. His sudden death had resulted from an accident: he had fallen from the running-board of a tram-car, had rolled under the wheels, and, severely injured, had been brought to his dwelling by the Rescue Society, and there a few hours later he had breathed his last in the arms of his daughter, who was half-crazed with terror and grief.

Franka walked slowly and wearily home from the cemetery. Her lodgings, her empty, orphaned lodgings, were not far distant. Behind her, with steps equally slow, strode a man who had caught sight of her at the cemetery gate, and, dazzled by her brilliant youthful beauty, which betrayed itself in spite of her paleness and the traces of tears, was now following her for the purpose of discovering who she was. He was an elderly man of distinguished appearance.

As Franka entered the front door, he also paused there, but did not venture to address her. He merely went to the porter’s door and rang the bell. A buxom woman came out and greeted him:—

“What is it you wish?”

“I should like to make an inquiry; please allow me to come in.”

The woman moved aside and allowed the stranger to pass in. He sat down in an armchair, took out of his pocket his portemonnaie, and handed the woman a ten-crown note.

“Tell me, who the young lady is who just entered this house, dressed in deep mourning. And give me all the information you can about her.”

“Oh, she?... She’s a Miss Garlett—yes, a pretty lass, but a poor little body! Her father died not long ago, and now she’s all alone.... She was almost beside herself with grief when they took him away. Now she’s a bit calmer. Every day she goes out and visits him in the graveyard, but otherwise she never goes out and no one comes to see her. And no one came to see them when the old gentleman—in fact, he was not old—was alive. You see he met with an accident—fell off the electric. When they brought him in....”

“Who and what was Mr. Garlett?” asked the other, interrupting her.

“A professor, or a philosopher, or something like that. He gave lessons. That was how he earned their living, I reckon. I’d like to know what the poor little lass will have to live on now. The rent is soon due, and it was always a hard pull to pay the rent.... The two had to be mighty thrifty. They had only one old woman who used to come in every day to help, and they only nibbled—like sparrows. But books! their rooms were just piled up with ’em! He must have been a real bookworm, the poor gentleman! and the little one used to be reading all the time, too.... The only luxury they ever allowed themselves was to go three or four times a month to the fourth gallery of the opera house or to the Burg Theater. But they weren’t never down in the mouth, neither of ’em, in spite of all the worry and their little money; on the contrary, they were as gay as larks—especially the lassie. We always heard her laughing and singing in her room, though outside, to be sure, she was always serious and, so to say, a bit haughty; perhaps she inherited a bit of haughtiness from her departed mamma.”

“Was Mr. Garlett a widower, and how long had he been?”

“Oh, for fifteen years or so. That was quite a romance. His wife was a count’s daughter, it seems. He had been private tutor to her brother at a castle: the young lady fell in love with him—he was a handsome fellow—indeed, he was. They eloped and were married. The parents—mighty stuck-up folks they was—was furious and put a curse on their daughter.”

“Ah, my dear lady, that only happens in old-fashioned novels: parents cursing their children.”

“I don’t know nothing about these things, but this much I know, they wouldn’t have anything more to do with her; never gave her no money, sent back all her letters, and the dainty young lady, who all her life had ridden in kerridges and had her pony and ate nothin’ but cakes and ice cream, and al’ays had noblemen dancing attendance on her,—for she was heiress to a great estate and was as pretty as a picture,—just like her daughter, so folks says,—well, she couldn’t stand poverty and living among common people, and so she just up and died when her little girl was only five years old.”

The stranger arose. “I thank you; I have all the information I wish.”

Franka climbed the stairs up to her rooms, which were situated on the fourth story. Painfully, clinging to the banister, often pausing to get her breath, which always seemed to die away in a trembling sigh, she made her way up. The deepest sigh she drew as she opened the door and entered the anteroom. The anteroom? Really the kitchen; but the kitchen hearth was hidden by a screen. The place was rather dark and chilly. It was April, and the weather was still pretty cold.

Franka passed through this place and pushed open the door of a front room: her bedroom. Here it was brighter and more comfortable. The furnishings were to the last degree simple, not to say shabby, and yet a certain something in the arrangement of the furniture, in the articles and trinkets disposed on the tables and the walls, betrayed a taste for elegance.

She laid aside her hat and cloak and opened the door into the adjacent room, which had served her and her departed father as sitting-room and dining-room, as study- and music-room. The door leading into still another contiguous chamber was closed. That was the room where Garlett had slept and dressed, and where he had died. Franka glanced into it—as she always did when she returned, as if to give a mute greeting to the place where she had last seen the beloved form of the departed, cold in death; then she softly closed the door again with a reverent gesture, crossed the sitting-room, and stretched herself out on the sofa with a long-drawn sigh—half lamentation, half ease.

She was so weary, so weary in body and soul at this moment, that the goad of her grief began to vanish from her consciousness, and she experienced only a kind of over-saturation of pain and a keen sense of yearning for rest. She drew over her chilly limbs the skin rug that lay on the sofa and banished all thought and feeling; she wished only to breathe and rest.

She was not sleepy; her eyes remained wide open, and she saw the rows of books which on the opposite wall reached from the floor to the ceiling. She saw her piano which had been silent and neglected for weeks. She saw her writing-desk which stood by the window, and the great center-table heaped with many folios. Gradually it began to grow darker, and through the window panes fell the glare from a row of brightly lighted windows of the house opposite. Up there was a printing establishment. The muffled rumble of the rotary presses also came to her ears. From the apartment on the floor below penetrated the staccato strumming of a too familiar opera-waltz—repeated with obstinate pertinacity—detestable sounds! Oh, if one could but hear the musical tinkle of a brook or the call of the cuckoo!

An overmastering love for nature, for its perfumes and voices, for its green vistas and golden gleams, had ever been one of Franka’s strongest passions—an unfortunate passion, for the crushing struggle for existence had enchained father and daughter almost exclusively to the narrow streets of the suburbs, and very rarely had opportunities been given for them to get glimpses of the splendors of free nature.

Nevertheless, this young girl’s mental life had not been narrow. She had ventured to gaze off over wide horizons, up to sublime heights, into mysterious depths, in a manner seldom afforded to young persons of her age and sex. Her father had been an investigator, a scientist, a thinker, and a poet, and he had made the child his comrade. She was no bluestocking, thank Heaven—from that she was safeguarded by her temperament, by her inborn charm; besides, he had spared her all the dry details of science, all the rubbishy accumulations of accuracy, endeavoring rather to disclose to her only the blossoms of the wonders of science, of the intellect and of arts. But of life itself she had enjoyed extraordinarily little: no travel, no experiences, no love-affairs (she had been far too rigorously and jealously guarded against anything of that sort), no passions:—none of these things had penetrated into the monotony and loneliness of her existence. All the more, therefore, in place of these came visions, hopes, air-castles, confident expectations that the future concealed in its folds some great good fortune in store for her, a good fortune in which above all others her beloved father would share. And instead of this, a great, an absolutely incomprehensible piece of evil fortune had come upon her: the sudden departure of her dearest and only friend, teacher, playmate, protector, her all in all.

In her present desolation the only persons who had interested themselves in her were an elderly couple who had rooms on the same floor—a retired major and his wife. When Mr. Garlett died, the major had taken upon himself to make all the arrangements for the funeral, and the major’s wife had done her best to comfort and console the despairing girl.

The major had investigated the drawers in the writing-table to see if a will or anything else were to be found. There was no will, only a savings-bank book calling for several hundred gulden, and of course the only daughter inherited this: it was enough to cover the funeral expenses and to leave a small sum over. In a portfolio was a sealed letter with the direction, “In case of my death to be mailed.” The address on it ran:—

To His Excellency

Count Eduard von Sielen,

Geheimer Rat, etc.,

Schloss Sielenburg,

Moravia.

This letter the major registered and mailed without letting Franka know anything about it, because in these first days she was so dazed that she really did not hear what was said to her.

It so happened that the major and his wife moved from Vienna to Graz, and Franka was now really alone. She realized that she was obliged to devise some means of earning her livelihood, and yet she had been putting off from day to day the effort of taking the first steps in this direction. The money in the bank was sufficient to allow her for a short time to lead her own life. But this respite was, indeed, brief, especially as the rent would be shortly due.

Franka was not thinking of this at all as she lay there in the twilight and gave herself up to the sense of restfulness that was coming over her. Gradually this absence of thought, between sleeping and waking, transformed itself into a pleasant half-dream. The waltz-rhythms from the neighbor’s piano grew into a murmurous combination of organ tones and the distant roaring of the sea; the gleam of light from the printing-house opposite took on the prismatic colors of an electric fountain; and through her mind—or was it through her blood?—vividly flashed the consciousness, not expressed and not even formulated in thought:—“I am young, I am beautiful, I am alive....”

The next day Franka set out to look for a position. She thought she might become a companion or a reader or something of that sort. She applied at several employment bureaus. Her name was registered, the booking-fee was put into the cash-drawer, and then she was asked for references. She had none. The woman who had charge of one bureau remarked: “You have one great fault: you are too young and too pretty.”

The remark was to the point. Although she was more than twenty, Franka seemed scarcely eighteen. She was very tall and supple in figure; her big black eyes—though much weeping had temporarily robbed them of their usual fire—were shaded by beautiful thick lashes; her mouth had a fairly fascinating loveliness; in her carriage and in every movement there was something both charming and aristocratic.

“Do you know, miss,” said the manageress, “you would do better to go on the stage rather than try to find a position.”

Franka shook her head: “For that one needs talent as well as special training.”

“You might attend a theatrical training-school.”

“I have not the means. Besides, I should not find it congenial.”

“You will find it very hard to get a place in a home ... without references and so dangerously pretty.... I should hesitate to recommend you. There is nothing that I know of now to suit you. However, perhaps something may turn up; if there should, I will communicate with you.”

When Franka got home after this unsuccessful circuit, the maid met her with the information that a gentleman had been there inquiring after her. He said he had been acquainted with her late father and that he would return in an hour.

Shortly after this the doorbell rang and the maid brought her a visiting-card on which Franka read:—

Freiherr Ludwig Malhof, k.k. Kämmerer.

She admitted the visitor. At the first glance she recognized in the person entering the elderly gentleman who had recently followed her from the cemetery to the house. She had only once, when she reached the door, turned around to glance at him, but his appearance was too striking not to make an immediate impression: a figure of more than ordinary height with broad shoulders and long, sweeping gray side-whiskers.

“Pardon me, Fräulein, for introducing myself, yet I might....”

“You knew my father?” said Franka, interrupting his apology; “will you not sit down, Baron, and tell me...?”

She herself took a seat and indicated a chair for her visitor. He sat down and placed his silk hat on the floor. His eyes rested inquisitively on the lovely maiden’s face.

“In fact,” said he, somewhat hesitatingly, “I am ... I met Mr. Garlett at a friend’s house where he was giving lessons.” His glance wandered to the opposite wall on which hung a portrait.

“Is that your picture?—A wonderful likeness.”

“That is my mother’s portrait.”

“Ah! such a resemblance!... And have you lost your mother also? So you are absolutely an orphan, quite alone?”

“Quite alone.”

“But you have some relatives?”

Franka shook her head.

“Then you have some protector? Perhaps a sweetheart?”

“No, no one.”

“It does not seem possible that when one is so beautiful, there has not been some love-affair....”

A shade of annoyance flew over Franka’s face: “Sir, you desired to speak to me of my father....”

“Exactly so, your father ... but, my dear child, let us rather speak of yourself.” In the man’s eyes flashed a look of lustful eagerness. He quickly dropped them, but Franka had seen it. “Yes, of you,” he continued; “your fate is worthy of all sympathy. Mr. Garlett cannot have left much property.... Your future is so uncertain.... You are exposed to all sorts of dangers.... You need a friend”—he stretched out his hand—“you need a fatherly friend—let me take your little white hand....” At the same time his voice began to tremble with ill-restrained tenderness.

Franka stood up, and withdrew her hand which the other had seized. She surveyed him with haughty eyes. “Among the dangers of which you speak certainly belongs that of an absolutely strange man penetrating to my lodgings and offering me his friendship.”

The amorous cavalier realized that he had gone too far. “This energetic sally on your part shows me, my dear Miss Garlett, that you know how to protect yourself from certain dangers. You are a very sensible young woman.” He also had stood up, and had taken possession of his hat. “I shall turn this reasonableness to account. You will hear from me again.... I will leave you now; yet I beg of you to be convinced that I wish you everything good.”

A stiff bow and he went out without Franka’s making any attempt to retain him.

When she was left alone, she breathed a sigh of relief. Still a shadow of doubt came over her, whether she had done wrong in offending a possibly harmless man who wanted to befriend her, whether he had really known her father, and for that reason had followed her from the cemetery.... Yet, no, her feminine instinct had detected the lustful look which had betrayed its forked flame in the eyes and the honeyed smiles of the elegant old gentleman.

Alas, to be alone and without means in this world, and obliged to defend herself against such attacks!—Nowhere an arm to protect her, nowhere a heart to which she might fly for refuge.... And now, what? Supposing she should find no situation? And even if she did, would she not be still just as lonely, just as deserted among strangers?

“Oh, father, father,” she cried aloud; “my noble, my youthful-hearted father, why did you have to die?—Die without accomplishing the high tasks which lay before you!...”

Whether Garlett would have ever accomplished the tasks to which his daughter made reference is very doubtful. There had been literary plans which he had long had in mind, but he had never brought any of them to fulfillment. Was it from lack of time—for when one must give private instructions to earn one’s bread and butter, there is little leisure for writing books—or was it from lack of energy? He had never got beyond projects, sketches, introductions. But in Franka’s eyes he always was to be the greatest author of his age. His masterpiece was there—it lay complete in his brain and required only to be written out.

In their readings and their studies together, it had often happened that he would pause and develop some idea associated with what they had been perusing, or would utter some deep remark, and add: “I will write a book about that.” Themes for essays were on hand in abundance, and Franka had made a collection of such utterances which she had jotted down in a book. She had turned over these pages every day since her father’s death—to her this seemed like a continued spiritual communication with him. Now, after her unexpected caller had taken his departure, and feeling doubly unhappy under the bitter impression that he had made upon her, she went once more to the cupboard where those papers were kept, in order to obtain from them diversion and edification.

She would soon be obliged to part with the books and all her household goods, for if she were burdened with a library and furniture she could not enter the house of strangers, but this beloved volume she would keep forever and in all situations of life. From it the very voice of the beloved father would speak; from it would flash up in her mind those momentary pictures, which often a sentence or a word—just as a stereopticon throws them on a screen—can waken out of the depths of memory.

The leaf which she first took up contained only brief notes in Garlett’s handwriting. Were they thoughts of his own, were they citations? Probably both mingled together. Franka read:—

The aim of men’s active organization

Is the getting out of the World all the good it will yield,

Whether it be the domain of the Mind’s creation,

Whether it be the crop of the well-eared field.

None of the fixed stars is nearer to us than four millions of millions of miles.... And we call that speck Austria—a great country!

Moral progress finally consists in the increase of the horror felt against the infliction of pain.

Over abysses of night the eye of the Spirit can wander,

There to behold the gleaming of yet uncreated light.

Nothing great can ever be accomplished without inspiration.

Where to-day the vanguard camps, there to-morrow the rearmost rests.

“Of all good works, the long list through,

Which is the best for us to do?

When his disciples of the Prophet

Asked this, what think you he made of it?

No good work with another can interfere:

Do each in its right time: that is clear.”

O Napoleon, standing on the Vendôme column, if the blood that thou hast caused to be shed, were collected here on this place, easily mightest thou drink of it, not stooping.

A few days later a packet was left at Franka’s door; she herself took it in. When she saw the postman, she hoped that he was bringing her a notification from the employment bureau that a place had been found for her. What would she do if her small store of money should come to an end before she had found any situation? There were still left the furniture and the books, but what they would bring would be small and soon exhausted. She had already made inquiries of second-hand dealers and antiquaries: these had come and looked at her possessions and offered for the “whole business” a ridiculously small price....

She opened the package: a jewel-case and a letter were inclosed in it. The case contained a pair of diamond studs. The letter read as follows:—

Dear Fraülein,—

I promised that I would appeal to your reason. This is what I am doing, and I picture to myself a sensible, a very sensible young lady as reading these lines. I shall talk very frankly with you. You must also be perfectly frank, not only with me, but also with yourself, putting on no mask, affecting no pose—least of all those of virtue, such as belong only to the heroines of Gartenlaube novels. Real life must be taken and lived in another way, if one is reasonable, and that you are, my lovely Franka!

Now, listen: I have fallen violently in love with you. I saw you in the street and followed you. I made inquiries about you and your circumstances. I know the whole story; you are without family and without means, and are on the very threshold of bitter poverty. I also know that you are endeavoring to find a paying situation, for I followed you when you went to the employment office.

Tell me, really, would you, with your striking beauty, take up with a wage employment, be a dependent? Now there is one thing that I might have done: I might have tried little by little to sneak into your good graces and then ... but it goes against my grain to play the elderly Don Juan. I am aware that I no longer have the appearance to warrant my attempting to win young maidens’ hearts; but I can make a reasonable maiden happy: that is, I can offer her a care-free life, a life full of enjoyments. Only, there is to be no misunderstanding: this is not an offer of marriage. I am a confirmed old bachelor and I propose to remain one. What I offer you is better than the fortune of being the wife of an unloved and jealous old husband, for if you wished to deceive him it would entail great worry in hiding it and it might cause a damaged reputation besides.

I offer you freedom,—perfect liberty,—the unobtrusive society of a lively man, not without wit, who will, as they say, “look after you” as long as you will permit him to do so. First and foremost he offers you luxury. Listen: luxury. That means the essential element of beauty, the only atmosphere for a creature like you. A splendid villa in the cottage-quarter, servants, a carriage of your own, gowns, jewelry: everything of this sort I lay at your feet. This does not imply a retired and restricted life—not at all: in your salon we shall receive my friends and their lady friends,—artists and writers and interesting foreigners: it shall be a real salon where everything sparkles with intellect, music, and gayety; also theaters and concerts to your heart’s desire. And in summer: journeys, trips to the seashore, the mountains....

As you see, Franka, child, a horn of plenty filled with delights is going to be poured out for you. Only do not be a narrow-minded Philistine; only no “principles” and moral commandments after the type of ancient almanac stories or complimentary gift literature for girls of riper age. Life, my dear young lady, is entirely different from the stale moralities that find their expression in the samplers of old maids and that are honored in the tea-table chatter of suburban aunties, as they turn up their eyes in holy horror!—Life wants to be boldly grasped, to be conquered with joyous pride; above all, to be enjoyed.

Such an opportunity is not offered to many of your sex; how many, in spite of youth and beauty, must, if they are poor, waste their lives in degrading, wearisome, laborious occupations, struggling with all sorts of privations, only at last to take up with some rough husband who will make her wretched—unless, indeed, the terrible, abominable fate overtakes her, of which possibly you know nothing, of becoming a victim of the international white-slave traffic which not infrequently makes use of intelligence offices....

Was it not your good genius, your guardian angel, that has so disposed matters that an elderly man, heart-free and wise in experience, has crossed your path, has fallen in love first with your pretty face, then with your whole admirable personality, that this man has no other obligation than the disposition of a very large estate, and that he in fond expectation of your summons signs himself

Your humble Slave?

Malhof.

After Franka had finished reading this letter, she tore it into tiny bits, and, laying them on the pale-yellow velvet of the jewel-case next the glittering stones, made the whole into a package, which she carefully tied up and sealed; and, after addressing it to Baron Ludwig Malhof, hastened to mail it at the nearest post-office station without taking a moment’s time for consideration. She felt a keen satisfaction in flinging the gift and the letter down at the feet of her insulter. On receiving them back, he would redden with shame as if he had been struck by the riding-whip of an angry queen.

Or would he not rather laugh at her for her “virtuous pose,” for her “moral Philistinism”? Franka was conscious that it was not a conventional “virtue” which had stimulated her impulsive action, but a mixture of one tenth sense of honor and nine tenths aversion.... She was not quite ignorant as regards the mysteries of love, although she had so far had no love-affairs. Her father had delicately initiated her, through studies of plants and animals, into the secrets of the transmission of life, and her comprehensive reading, begun when she was a little child,—the poets, somewhat later the German, French, and English novelists,—had given her an insight into the whole world of passion,—into the tragedies and joys, the sorrows and dreams, of love; also into the crimes and baseness, the ardent happiness and the depths of despair, which are found in the domain of sex, and, on the whole, she had a boundlessly high ideal of love. Perhaps for the very reason that hitherto she had found no one to inspire this feeling in her soul, because no little adventures and gleams of romance had disillusioned her, her ideas and presentiments, if by chance they swept into this domain, were so high-strung.

A love union and paradise were to her two similar conceptions. A pure fountain of devoted tenderness and a glowing hearth of passionate yearnings were concealed in her inmost being, still panoplied round with virgin austerity, with a delicate, flower-like terror of any impure touch. If ever she bestowed the treasure of her love, it would be for the recipient and for herself a sacred moment of the loftiest bliss.

And the idea of her throwing herself away for money, for clothes, for precious stones,—and instead of highest rapture to feel only deepest repulsion,—to endure the embraces of that old satyr, the kisses of a shriveled, detestable mouth.... No! Sooner die! And should Fate never offer her the possibility of giving that treasure to one truly beloved, then were it better sunk in the depths of the sea! That hateful creature had written something about a horn of plenty filled with joys—yes, she possessed such a one to pour out upon the dear life that would be united with hers.... No; that should not be wasted and shattered!

The next day, as Baron Malhof was preparing to go and get his answer from the young girl, an answer which he did not doubt would be favorable, though perhaps awkwardly expressed, he was interrupted in the midst of his fastidious toilet by the arrival of the package. After he had opened it, he hissed out two words which expressed his whole sense of disgust:—“Stupid goose!”

Several weeks elapsed, and still no situation offered. Now Franka was constrained to sell her books in order to exist for a time—and what an existence! She was standing in front of the bookcase, selecting the volumes which for the time being she still felt unable to part with; she intended to lay these aside so that the second-hand dealer whom she had summoned might not see them.

Tears stood in her eyes, for to her it was a great and painful sacrifice. She would have preferred to keep them all, for almost every one of those volumes was associated in her memory with joyous, soul-stimulating hours—all of Goethe, all of Shakespeare, Byron, Victor Hugo, and other classics of universal literature. They must all go—these good spirits which had with their magical pictures glorified so many winter evenings for the two solitaries! Also, away with the thick-bodied works of the philosophers, from Aristotle to Schopenhauer; away with the works of history and the encyclopædias; away with the whole rows of modern fiction.

Only a shelf-full of scientific books by contemporaneous authors,—scientists, thinkers, and stylists at the same time,—Bölsche, Bruno Wille, Herbert Spencer, Emerson, Anatole France, Haeckel, Ernst Mach, Friedrich Jodl, and a few others,—these she would keep and take with her and plunge into again in order to get edification from the remembrance of the unforgettable words which her father had spoken to her when they were reading them together.

“Child, these are revelations! What the human mind—which is certainly a part of God—has gradually glimpsed at and recognized—is the disclosure of the Highest, and therefore is what men call Revelation. In astonishment and awe we are learning things of which our fathers and the majority of our contemporaries had no suspicion. We are penetrating into mysteries which bring before our eyes the grandeur of the universe and its infinities and which still remain mysteries—for our consciousness only perceives but does not comprehend them. We are standing on the threshold of perfectly new apperceptions, and so at the threshold of a wholly new epoch: fortunate are we who are to live in this twentieth century. It is the cradle of some new-born thing destined to the most glorious development. What will it be called? No one as yet knows; only posterity will find a name for it.

“Child, approach these revelations with a religious mind. You know what I call ‘religious’: to have the sense of reverence, to know that there are sublime things as yet unknown; to wish to be worthy of the greatness and the goodness that everywhere prevails and therefore to be good one’s self. Now, perhaps you may ask what I mean by ‘good’? There is no end in the chain of definitions;—do not always try to explain, but rather to feel, and then you have the right thing....”

In many of the books which Franka was now glancing over were places marked by her father’s marginal notes; some of them, made with pencil, were so pale that they were scarcely legible. Franka got a pen and ink and retraced the lines. While she was engaged in this work, she was interrupted by the entrance of the maid:—

“Excuse me, miss, there is a gentleman outside as wishes to speak to you.”

“Oh, yes, I was expecting him; please show him in.”

A comfortable-looking, well-dressed man of middle age entered. He bowed politely.

“Miss Garlett? I take the liberty ...”

“You have come to see about the books?”

“What books?”

“Were you not sent by the dealer?”

“No, miss. I take the liberty of introducing myself: Attorney Dr. Fixstern. It concerns a matter which is of the highest importance for you.”

“Oh, in regard to a situation—?”

A suspicion crossed her mind. She remembered what Baron Malhof had written her regarding the traps that sometimes are laid in the offers of employment bureaus. She would be on her guard.

“No, not at all; something quite different. Will you permit me to sit down—as the interview may be somewhat protracted?” And he drew a chair up to the table.

“Please, I am listening; but I have not very much time....” And she herself sat down at some little distance.

“Oh, you will give me all the time I want! What I have to say to you is too agreeable for you to wish to break off my communication, my dear very much honored Miss Franka Garlett. That is your name, is it not?”

“Yes, that is my name,” she answered coldly.

“Daughter of the late Professor Garlett, and likewise of his late lawful wife, Ida Garlett, born Countess Sielen of Sielenburg?”

“My father and I were not accustomed ever to mention that title.”

“Your father was very democratic in his notions, was he not? But to the business in hand: I am the attorney of His Excellency the old Count Sielen, and I have come here at his request.”

Franka listened in the greatest agitation; this did not sound like an offer of a situation and was, indeed, surprising.

Dr. Fixstern took out of his breast-pocket an envelope and laid it down before him on the table. Then he went on to say:—

“Your grandfather, miss, a short time after his return from Egypt, where he had been sojourning on account of his health, found waiting for him a letter from Mr. Garlett. I have it here. Perhaps you are familiar with its contents?... No?... Then, will you please read it?”

With a throbbing heart Franka took the letter and unfolded it. The beloved handwriting! It was like a greeting from beyond the grave. She read:—

To the Count of Sielen:—

For almost a generation I have been to you like one vanished. Never have I attempted to approach you. As it were, an abyss lay between us—we had both inflicted the utmost pain on the other: you, by your harsh repudiation of my beloved wife, who died in consequence of it—I to you, by robbing you of your daughter. As long as we lived we could not pardon each other.

But in the presence of death, all resentment, pride, and everything of the sort which are the bitter prerogatives of the living, disappear.

This letter comes into your hands only in case death has stricken me before my Franka is provided for; such is the name of my daughter, your grandchild. Orphaned, left without a farthing, she might be exposed to the deepest poverty and the greatest dangers. This thought is my sorrow and my torment. The maiden is sweet and good and highly educated, and—as you cannot read coldly—she has grown up to be the image of her mother—feature for feature. Graf Sielen, I beg of you: look after the young girl. Do not let her suffer want or ruin.

The signature, with date and address, followed. Having read it through, Franka gazed at the sheet for a long time.

Dr. Fixstern awakened her out of her thoughts:—

“Would you like to know, miss, how His Excellency responds to this letter of your father—a letter which, it must be said, is very effective by reason of its brevity?”

A warm stream of joy expanded Franka’s heart. The lawyer had already informed her that he had pleasant news for her: so it was clear that her grandfather was going to look after her: there would be some one to love her again....

“Well, Doctor,” she asked, with eagerness, “what message do you bring me?”

“A pleasant one, my dear miss. The count has instituted inquiries about you, has had you carefully watched of late, and has now decided to invite you to come to Sielenburg. He will provide for your future. He himself would have come to Vienna to fetch you, but illness confines him to his room—the old gentleman is now more than seventy—Egypt seems not to have done him any good. Now I am commissioned, in the first place, to make this disclosure to you, and, in the second place, to hand you these lines.”

He took a second sheet out of the envelope and handed it to Franka, who read as follows:—

Sielenburg, May 20, 1909.

Dear Granddaughter:—

I invite you to make your home with me. The bearer, my attorney, will provide whatever is necessary and will accompany you hither. God bless you.

Count Eduard Sielen.

“In the third place,” proceeded Dr. Fixstern, “I am to hand you a small sum of money,” and suiting the action to the word he laid on the table a bundle of bank-notes—there were ten one-hundred-kronen bills,—“and, in the fourth place, to consult with you regarding the prospective journey to Moravia. You probably require some little preparation and in this my wife may be able to help you.... Now, my dear miss, have you a little more time to spare for me?”

Franka offered him her hand. She could not immediately find words—it was like a dream, like a fairy-tale. A home! So suddenly to be rescued from all her tribulation and all her desolation—a home!

CHAPTER II
CHLODWIG HELMER

At the Sielenburg, 1909.

Dear Cousin and Beloved Friend!

It was a pleasant surprise when your letter, after long wanderings, reached me here. I was convinced that you had entirely forgotten me,—ten long years we had lost sight of each other,—and now suddenly down upon me rains this letter in which you relate to me the experiences which you have been having in all this time and you want to have the like from me.

Oh, how gladly do I fulfill your wish! I am simply hungry for a regular outpouring of my mind. Your twenty pages would make the basis of a fascinating novel: interesting events described in a fluent style. Now, my answer ought not to prove much shorter: I shall devote to it a few hours of leisure, but I shall not take much trouble about polishing my style. “Unconstrained”—do you remember? That was the catchword that we selected at the time when we became intimate friends as students in the same class in the Theresianum. “Unconstrained”—ah! in this word lie whole revolutions, and you know well that I have always been a revolutionist.

Now for my story. I will begin at the very end, that is—this very day. Before I confide to you what I have been doing during these last years, you must know where and what I am at the present moment. My residence is called Schloss Sielenburg. It is surrounded by a great park of twenty acres, and from the window is visible a forest which is my delight. Many trees a hundred years old, and one oak a thousand years old, stand in it, and there are moss and shrubbery and the twitter of birds. That there are still such forests on the earth can console one for the existence of cities and suburbs.

From my window I can see the roof of the stables where there are six pairs of carriage-horses and six saddle-horses. A garage for the automobiles is just building. Among the saddle-horses is a gray with a silken mane, with some Arab in his build and behavior, with such thoughtful and reproachful, and at the same time affectionate, eyes—ah! I tell you there are animals also here below, the existence of which can console us for many of the councilors and aldermen that are their contemporaries! So you may easily imagine how reconciled with the world I feel as I ride on that gray through yonder forest!

I am not master of all this accumulated wealth: castle, grounds, forests, stables, and garages are the property of the Right Honorable Count Eduard Sielen—a sick old man. He exercises his dominion also over a secretary, and that secretary am I.

Now you know—I, the cabinet minister’s son, over whose future career we could not make plans sufficiently ambitious,—to be an ambassador was one of the lowest of my expectations,—am now in a subservient, humble position, am obliged to be forever ready, at my gracious master’s beck and call, to write at his dictation or read to him the newspapers, or anything else. And yet I feel much more free than when I was in the government service, for I can throw up my place at any moment, and the work which I am performing is independent of what I think; it leaves my private character, my personal actions, untouched, whereas in the service of the State the master cannot be changed and one must subordinate his whole “I” to his standards, and only act and work as an unelastic system demands.

No, I could not have endured that yoke. I did not endure it. After completing my volunteer year, I began my regular service under a district chief; once I ventured to contradict my superior, and as a punishment was transferred to a smaller district at soul-killing labor and no living wage; one must practice for some years before one gets a decent salary—I left the service.

In the mean time my parents had died—so I had no need of asking any one’s advice. I was free. I had inherited a small property profitably invested in industrials; this made me independent. I traveled about the world and I have seen a tremendous lot and learned a tremendous lot from my experiences.

Then suddenly the value of my industrials fell so far below par that one fine day the bonds were so much waste paper. That meant: “Go to work again.” For a time I was a journalist, but that also was an unendurable yoke. I was obliged to bend my judgment to suit the opinions of the paper on which I was engaged as an editorial writer, and these opinions were, to tell the truth, no opinions at all, but consisted in following the instructions given out by the ministry. Here again was a form of slavery, of gagging, which I could not put up with, and I left the editorial sanctum just as I had left the government office. Then I was happy when I was offered a position as secretary to the old Count Sielen which I have been filling for two years now. Here I can at least poetize and think as I please.

Yes, poetize. Perhaps you did not know that I have discovered in myself the impulse to write verses, and a collection of my poems has already appeared in print and has been enthusiastically received by the critics. I will not name the title and publisher, lest you may think that I am hinting to you to buy it—moreover, I have issued it under a pseudonym which I will not divulge until my reputation is established. At the present time I am putting the last touches to a four-act drama. You have no notion what a delight, what an exalting consciousness of accomplishment, lies in writing out from one’s very soul what moves it. And to create! To enrich the world with something new! The joy of creation is the highest of all joys. If I were not a poet I would crave to be an inventor.... I do not know, for example, whether the name “Edison” should not be spoken with as much respect as the name “Shakespeare.” I am now following enviously the work of the aviators—I look up to the Zeppelins and the Wrights as to heroes and especially as to heralds. They are sounding the call to a new era. They are summoning their fellow-men to vanquish an unheard-of future—perhaps without knowing it, for their minds are fixed on the mechanical part of their work. The aerial age! Do you surmise what that signifies? Certainly, those have no notion of it who would accomplish nothing else with their sky-commanding apparatus than to elevate into the air the ancient scourges of the depths.

In your story of the last ten years which you have so kindly made me acquainted with, you write a vast amount about your experiences in life and love.

Pardon me, if I do not tell you anything about my experiences in love. I do not want to profane, in dry epistolary prose, whatever has sanctified my life with tender charm, and I would not soil my pen with vulgar adventures. Every man has in this domain a bit of magic dreamland and a—register of his peccadilloes. The one I leave undisclosed, the other unconfessed.

On the Sielenburg at the present time—not taking into account the kitchen department—there is no one of the gentle sex dangerous to any man’s heart or peace of mind. The housekeeping is under the charge of the count’s widowed sister, the Countess Schollendorf, who is at least sixty-two years old. She exercises control over the household and the servants and she invites guests according to her own idiosyncrasies—for the most part ancient female cousins. There are three of that sort here now, accompanied by their maids and their lapdogs. One of these females—her name is Albertine—has two terrible peculiarities: the first is sincerity, and the second is that she is deeply concerned with the well-being of all her fellow-men. It results from the first that she is always telling people to their faces the most disagreeable truths, and from the second that she expects of them every sort of sacrifice and renunciation and other torments—of course, “only for their own good.”

There are still other habitués of the establishment: the castle chaplain and an aged ruined cousin four times removed, to whom Count Sielen furnishes bread and butter. As you see, it is not a very gay society, nor is the conversation at table very enlivening. Yet, just now, the count, because of his miserable health, is accustomed to take his meals in his own room, and I keep him company, which is preferable to sitting at the lower end of the table in the big dining-room and listening to uninteresting small-talk, mostly confined to the idle gossip of court and society, unless, by chance, thanks to the old cousin, who is an arch-reactionary, it skirts the domain of politics—which makes it particularly distasteful to me. This gentleman would especially like to see restored the conditions that prevailed before the year 1848, and from this standpoint he illuminates the present-day events and questions of which his newspaper—the “Reichspost”—brings him an echo.

That his opposite neighbor at table has Jewish blood in his veins—you know my mother’s grandfather was a Jew—does not prevent him from letting his opinion concerning regrettable disturbances culminate in the sentence: “The Jews are responsible for that”:—for example, the Russian revolution and the horrors connected with it, all initiated by the Jews: the decay of morals, the increase of poverty, the downfall of the old aristocratic families, earthquakes and floods (these latter as God’s punishments)—all these things are attributable to the Jews. He does not say in so many words that the destruction of this pernicious race would be a praiseworthy remedy, but he leaves it to be plainly understood.

The chaplain—I must give him due credit for this—does not agree with such truculences: he is a good man, a gentle Christian, and as such avoids everything coarse and spiteful. During these discussions I remain obstinately dumb, for I cannot contend with Cousin Coriolan. The eyes of his yearning are turned back to the past, while mine look to the future, and it is impossible, while standing back-to-back, to fence with him.

And do I hear you ask: “Your count, your employer, what is he like?” He?—A dear old fellow: I cannot say anything else. Genial, jovial, simple, friendly, gay. He must have been a man of captivating personality. Now, indeed, he is old and ill, and yet his sense of humor has not deserted him.

The count is a widower and childless. He had two children, but lost them both under tragic circumstances. The daughter—a marvelously beautiful girl—ran off with her brother’s tutor. At that time the countess was still living—a terribly haughty and hard-hearted woman, and nothing would induce her to pardon her daughter for this step. The count would have gladly given in, but the inexorable woman would not relent.

In a few years the daughter died, and shortly afterwards the son met with a fatal accident in a boating-party. It was whispered about that he was of very light weight, and that he had showed great lack of love and respect for his parents: consequently, his loss was not such a severe blow to the count, although it deprived him of his only son and heir. He was much more deeply affected by the loss of his daughter; in the first place, her elopement with a man who was regarded as unworthy of her, and then her death. But time has healed all those wounds. The cheerful, light-hearted temperament of my dear count (for I really love the man) won the day. He had the reputation of being the gayest and wittiest cavalier in his time, and even only two years ago, when I first entered his house, he was in the happiest state of mind and of a geniality which simply captivated my heart.

Just now, indeed, he is a great sufferer, and old age, which he has so long victoriously resisted, is at last getting in its detestable work. He is not and has never been what is called a high intelligence. He is clever with a somewhat superficial cleverness, without great depth—without complications, without subtlety, but abounding in straightforward, honest, human understanding. His wit never stings and never bites; it merely smiles and winks; in short, my poor count is, as I rather disrespectfully remarked above, a dear old fellow.

I have never made a confidant of him about my anonymous poetizing: he has no inclination for poetry. His reading—that is, what I read to him—consists exclusively of selections from the daily newspapers, the weekly comic papers, French novels—but they must be piquant; and for serious pabulum: memoirs of princes, generals, and statesmen. Military and diplomatic history, especially relating to the time in which he took an active part, interests him. But all this has inspired me with a great disgust at the kettle of chatter and intrigue in which the soup of the unsuspecting people’s destiny is cooked. Aye! the nations have no suspicion what contemptible means the great men who make universal history use, what petty aims they pursue: personal jealousies and ambitions, entanglements of lies and errors and accidents, whereof are born the mighty events which are explained as the expression of Divine Will, or of a scheme of creation conditioned by natural laws. And, vice versa, the great men high up know nothing of the people: they fail to comprehend their sufferings and hopes. Their awakening and stretching of limbs they have no suspicion of....

Two days later.

Since I wrote the above, something has happened. For some time it has seemed to me that the count was concealing something from me. If his attorney, Dr. Fixstern, came, I was dismissed from the room, and letters addressed to him were not as usual dictated to me, but were written by the count himself. And now I know what the secret was; early this morning the count confided in me: The child left by the daughter who eloped with the tutor has turned up, and the grandfather has invited the young girl to make her home at the Sielenburg. She will be coming now in a few days. The old gentleman is delighted.

I am full of curiosity. The young thing will scarcely feel very comfortable at the Round Table which I described to you. Well, later in the summer there are various visitors from the neighboring castles, among them young people, and in the autumn there are many brilliant hunting-parties. Of course, owing to my position, I hold aloof from all these things. My world is not this world of aristocratic society—my kingdom is that of the imagination. There I sometimes indulge in revels and there I hope to attain some rank—not mediocre; there ceases my modesty. Artists must not be—inwardly—modest, else they are not artists. Just as an athlete feels his muscles, so must the artist feel his power of creation. A host of thoughts press forward to be formulated, and these thoughts are elastic and swelling like an athlete’s muscles! A domain which no Pegasus’ hoof has as yet ever touched invites me. First I am going to finish my drama, which treats of a social problem, and then I shall fly away to that virgin land where horizons flooded with light open out before me. I am going to compose the epic of the conquest of the air.... I shall fly up to the flaming corona of the Sun, and from that I will pluck down forked flames to annihilate all that is low and common. I am called away, so I will mail this and will write again.

Yours ever,

Chlodwig Helmer.

CHAPTER III
FRANKA’S NEW HOME

Franka Garlett leaned back with closed eyes in one corner of the compartment. In another corner sat Dr. Fixstern, in whose company the young girl was making the trip to her new home. The railway journey had already lasted four hours and they were not far from their destination.

For some time Franka had been sitting there motionless, as if she were asleep. But she was not sleeping; she wanted undisturbed to give herself up to her thoughts. Very mixed feelings stirred in her heart. When she called up the idea of “home,” which had come to her mind at the first revelation of the change impending in her destiny, she felt excitement and a sense of joy; but, immediately, this was succeeded by a certain timidity. “Home!”—that is the cherished spot where all one’s loves, all one’s accustomed habits, all one’s recollections cluster; but she was coming to an unknown place, among absolutely strange people! Even though Count Sielen was her grandfather, she had never seen him, never even thought of him; between him and her there was no common remembrance, except the fact that he had been cruel to her parents. In Count Sielen’s eyes, Frank Garlett had been only the shameless brigand who had robbed him of his daughter: Count Sielen had never known what a splendid man this unwelcome son-in-law had been. She would tell her grandfather that, but would he believe it? And would she be able to love the old man? And would the great-aunt accept her? After the description which Dr. Fixstern gave of her,—a rather proud, rather bigoted, rather narrow-minded old lady,—she had little hope that she would find a mutually sympathetic relationship in that quarter. Ah, she was so alone, so alone in the world, after being accustomed to confidential comradeship with her beloved father!... Two tears trickled down her cheeks.

“Oh, Miss Garlett,” cried the doctor, “I thought you were asleep, and there you are crying!”

Franka straightened herself up: “Oh, I was thinking of my poor dead father.”

“Think rather of your grandfather, and instead of tormenting yourself, rejoice! Just think what an unexpected piece of good fortune has come to you.”

“You are right: it is ungrateful of me.”

“Your grandfather will assuredly see to it that you are suitably married.”

“I don’t intend to be married.”

“You don’t want to marry?”

“Oh, well, perhaps; why not? But to be married off....”

“Oh, yes, I understand the distinction. But now it is time for you to put on your hat and I will get the traveling-bag down; the next station is ours.”

Franka pinned on her hat; it was black, for she still wore mourning, but it was pretty and very becoming. Under the direction of Dr. Fixstern’s wife, she had provided herself with new and elegant clothing, and she was not insensible to the comfortable feeling of being neatly and correctly dressed, although nothing was farther from her nature than vanity and a love of finery.

The train came to a stop, and Franka’s heart began to beat: so now, now was the beginning of a new life.... Would there be any one from the castle to meet her and greet her?... The platform was full of people, but merely passengers of the third class, waiting for the next train—peasants, market-women with baskets or bundles. There was also a servant in livery. He approached the coach from which Franka and her escort were dismounting. On the street in front of the station an automobile was waiting—a great open limousine, the white lacquer of which glittered in the sun. The chauffeur was standing beside it and helped Franka to enter. It was the first time in her life that she had ever been in such a vehicle. Indeed, a new life in every respect!

Along a road between red-blooming clover-fields, through a fir forest, the branches of which were loaded with bright green cones, and then up a long avenue of ancient chestnut trees, the chauffeur took them toward the castle with its towers and pinnacles, its bow-windows and verandas, which now began to be visible against the horizon in the distance. The weather was warm, but the air, fragrant with spring, fanned Franka’s face with refreshing coolness as the machine swiftly sped along. Franka took deep breaths; her cheeks were aglow with color and a smile of joy played around her young mouth. She had only just been shedding tears, and now a keen feeling of delight swept through her whole being. The future must bring her something beautiful ... she would not have to be always so alone...! The wide world is, indeed, a savings bank in which rich funds of love are deposited, and youth, in itself, is a kind of checkbook.

Along park drives bordered with shrubbery, past flower-beds and pools, from which rose glittering fountains, flew the machine, and came to a stop under the porte-cochère of the castle. Several servants stood waiting and took her hand-luggage. On the steps above, Franka was received by the count’s sister.

“Welcome, dear child.... How are you, Dr. Fixstern ... so you have brought the child with you safely, have you? Come, Franka, we will go directly to my brother—he is waiting for you in great anticipation.”

The lady spoke in a friendly tone, and her face wore a friendly expression; but the doctor, who knew her well, could not help perceiving that both in her voice and in the expression of her face there was a tone and a look of insincerity.

Through a long corridor adorned with potted plants and hung with paintings, Franka was conducted into another wing and ushered into the count’s apartment. It was a room paneled with dark leather and filled with ancient furniture. In a tall armchair near the window sat the count, a pillow behind his head and a covering over his knees. Pale and ill as he looked, he was a handsome old man. Noble, regular features, his white beard trimmed close and to a point, large blue eyes beaming with friendliness, his hair silver-white, but still brushed up in a thick mass above his forehead.

“Here, Eduard, I bring you your granddaughter.... Come, Dr. Fixstern, let us go into the adjoining room; we will leave the two alone for a little.”

A young man, who was sitting in one corner of the room at a table covered with writings, stood up and was about to leave the room.

“Remain, if you please, Mr. Helmer, and continue your writing; you will not disturb me. And you, my girl, come nearer, quite close, so that I may look at you.... My eyes are growing dim....” He held out to her a slim white hand.

Franka went to him with quick steps, knelt on the footstool that was placed near his chair, and kissed the hand he offered her: “Grandfather! How kind of you!”

He laid his hand on her head, and bent her face back.

“So it is! you are the living picture of your poor mother. Remarkable! I hope, however, you will not resemble her in all respects ... at least, that you will not also run away out of this with some young rascal....”

Franka sprang up.

“Count ... this can be no home for me, where my father is to be insulted.”

“There, there! not so fast! I like it in you, that you spring to the defense of your beloved father. I beg your pardon. Besides, I did not mean anything so very bad. The word ‘rascal’ in my mouth carries no insult—I myself was one when I was young, and I should be very glad if any one would call me an old rascal now—but here I must sit, tied down to this chair.... ‘Count!’ I will not let you scold me that way; just say, as you did so prettily a moment ago,—‘Grandfather.’ ... And I have still another thing to ask your forgiveness for: that it was so long before I took any notice of you.... That was cruel to you and cruel to the memory of my daughter.... She made a mistake ... but of all mistakes is not implacability one of the worst and stupidest?—So, little girl, be forgiving ... call me ‘Grandfather’ ... that is right; a great French poet has written a book entitled ‘L’Art d’être Grandpère.’”

“Yes, Victor Hugo,” assented Franka, nodding.

“You seem to be well read.... Now, you see, I am beginning rather late to learn that art, but I shall be an industrious scholar.—And now, will you be conducted to your room? I feel ill again ... a real cross sickness is ... go, dear child.”

Franka was about to bend over the old gentleman’s hand to kiss it again, but he lifted her head up and imprinted a kiss on her brow.

An hour later Franka had already finished the unpacking of her possessions; she had disposed her books and photographs, and this communicated a somewhat cozy appearance to the long unoccupied chamber, with its stiff, old-fashioned furniture. It was an enormous room with four windows looking down into the park. Gay-flowered chintz covered the chairs and sofas and the same material served as hangings for the windows and the curtains of the bed. Adjoining was a little toilet-room and bathroom. Next to this was the chamber of a maid whose services were at the disposal of the “gnädiges Fräulein.”

So new, so unwonted was all this magnificence! Ought not all these unexpected, these truly brilliant surroundings to have awakened a measureless joy in Franka, who had spent her young days in the midst of such privations? But why was she so sad?

Ah, yes, if her father had only lived and she might have shared these delights with him, or at least have told him about them....

Joys are like tones—in order to sound, they must have resonance.

CHAPTER IV
LIFE IN SIELENBURG CASTLE

Five months had passed and a cold gray autumn had set in with pallid suns, soggy mists, wailing tempests. As melancholy as the weather was Franka’s mood. Sielenburg had not proved a home for her: she felt that she was a stranger, that she was in exile. Her grandfather, who showed her friendly affection and to whom her heart went out in sympathy, grew constantly worse, so that more and more rarely he summoned her to his side, and when she came, he had but little to say; he merely would ask her to tell him about her past, to describe her early life, and to talk about her parents.

He asked her very little about her present existence, and even if he had done so she assuredly would not have told him that she was wretchedly unhappy; that the great-aunt always treated her with the utmost coldness and reserve; that the insipid conversation of the two other old ladies “got on her nerves”; that the cousin, with his views expressed so arrogantly and dogmatically,—views so diametrically opposed to all that she had learned from her father,—still more affected her, indeed, caused her real agony—all this and much more she could not confide to her grandfather without troubling him, without making him think her ungrateful. Of all the inhabitants of the castle, Mr. Helmer, the young secretary, would have been the most sympathetic, perhaps for the very reason that he was young, and youth feels drawn by irresistible power to youth; but she came scarcely at all into contact with him, because he was rarely present at meals, and when he was, he took no part in the conversation.

Only once had he made an exception to this reserve. At table Cousin Coriolan had spoken about the dirigible balloon: he said: “So then, the thing seems to be feasible.”

“And you remember, Baron,” remarked the priest, “that you have always expressed the opinion that all these aëronautical and aviationary projects were ‘the utmost nonsense,’ ‘crack-brained balderdash,’ ‘lunatic absurdity,’ ‘the summit of imbecility’—I noticed your words particularly—I like your strong expressions....”

“Well, well, Chaplain, to err is human ... but I venture even now to predict that nothing practical or useful will ever come out of them ... only catastrophes.... What would happen if such a monster should fall on the Emperor’s roof at Schönbrunn? ... For reconnoitering in war, it would be extremely dangerous, for naturally the enemy would shoot up at them. The only good that they would accomplish would be the scattering down of explosives—but they would never be able to take any great amount up with them and the mark from such a height would be very difficult to hit—it would be like spitting from the balcony on a nickel lying on the sidewalk, the much-vaunted airship business will in the long run—”

“Make of man another man,” interrupted Chlodwig Helmer, raising his voice. Franka pricked up her ears. “Behind the azure door which has been flung open streams a light, destined to breathe new souls—aerial souls—into new generations of men.”

The rest of the company exchanged glances as much as to say: “What is the matter with the man? What has got into him?”

Franka would gladly have heard him continue.

“Please, Mr. Helmer, explain what you mean....”

But he shook his head and said no more.

She occasionally met him in her grandfather’s room; but there also he generally remained silent. If he spoke, as he did only to answer some direct question, she found something particularly attractive both in the sound of his voice and in the choice of his words.

He was not handsome—far from it; he would be rather more likely to be called ugly; but it was not a common ugliness, and whatever else he was, Mr. Helmer was certainly a gentleman.

Franka had not failed to notice that she inspired the young man with admiration: it betrayed itself in his eyes, in his attitude, in the intonations of his voice. It was a thoroughly respectful admiration which strove to hide and not to betray itself, and consequently Franka responded to it with many a gracious word and friendly smile.

But an end soon came to this harmless little flirtation, if it could be called such. Six weeks after Franka’s arrival, Helmer was obliged to take his departure from Sielenburg. Cousin Albertine had indulged in some idle gossip concerning the two. “Evidently,” she said, “that crazy secretary is falling in love with Franka.” Something peculiar also was noticed in Franka’s behavior, and after her mother’s escapade—the apple does not fall far from the tree—and it was to be feared that some similar fatality might ensue.... These and other insinuations made to the count’s sister, and by her communicated to the count himself, resulted in the young man’s being dismissed. After his departure Franka felt still more isolated.

In the course of the summer several times, but not frequently, for an hour or two during the afternoon, callers from the neighborhood came to the castle, and were served with a cup of tea in the garden. The conversation always revolved around the same topics: society and family news, the prospects of the harvest, hunting experiences, chronicles of sicknesses, and the results of “cures” at the sea-baths, gossip of the court mixed in with a dash of politics (from the agrarian point of view), and with lamentations over the degeneracy of the times (from the clerical point of view).

It devolved on Franka, as the daughter of the house, to pour the tea, yet the others treated her with a shade of condescension, as if she were only a kind of companion. She could never even try to insinuate herself into the good graces of these strangers; she remained taciturn and reserved. The topics of conversation and the questions that occupied the lives of this little circle scarcely appealed to her; perhaps, if she had grown up and been educated among them, she might have found edification in it, but it was all strange to her—on the other hand, the others had no comprehension of her aspirations, her ambitions, her realm of thought.

One day she had a surprising encounter. As she entered the salon her eyes fell on a stranger who was sitting in the midst of the usual circle. His back was turned to the door, so she could not see his face, but there was something strikingly familiar in his figure and attitude. And with good reason—for as she came nearer, Countess Adele introduced him to her as Baron Malhof. He manifested no surprise; he evidently knew of the altered circumstances of Franka’s life. He made a low bow.

“It is a great pleasure to meet you again, Miss Garlett.”

“What, do you know my niece?”

“Yes, I made Miss Garlett’s acquaintance a short time ago and learned to have a high regard for her.”

Malhof sat next to Franka at the tea-table. Unobserved by the others, he said to her in an undertone:—

“You seem to be still incensed with me—but you ought to know what I have done for you. I have just been in to see your grandfather. I was well aware that you were making your home here, for I had learned the whole story from your landlady of whom I have frequently inquired about what you are doing. And to-day I told your grandfather the whole story of the little comedy in which you and I were the actors....”

“You did...?”

“Yes, although the part I played was rather deplorable; for that very reason yours was all the more brilliant, and I felt that I owed it to you to make this reparation. Count Sielen had a right to know what a brave, high-minded maiden his new-found granddaughter is.”

“Was that your opinion of my behavior, Baron Malhof?”

“Not at the first moment—to tell the honest truth; at that time I was quite vexed and thought your behavior simply—pardon me the expression!—simply stupid, terribly vieux jeu;—but here is a somewhat old-fashioned milieu where all such heroic actions of virtue awake a response and I said to myself: ‘If I tell the whole story to the old gentleman, it may prove useful to the young lady who so abused me ... that letter you tore into bits!—it will put her into a beautiful light and make her still dearer to the old man’s heart,’—as you see, I am capable also of noble impulses. There is one thing I should like to ask you: Are you happy?”

“How could I fail to regard myself as happy? It would be sheer ingratitude toward fate!”

“Well, yes, ‘to regard yourself as happy,’ but ‘to feel happy’? Life cannot be very gay among all these wigs.... I do not often come here—only when I am visiting their neighbors at the castle of Dornhof, where I generally spend a week almost every year. Then I make my respects here and I have always found the house tedious to the last degree, except when the old count used to enliven it with his presence; but for the most part during the last few years he has been away traveling. Of course, I had heard about the family romance,—the daughter who ran off with the tutor,—but that you were the result of that elopement, I never suspected until I made a fool of myself about you.... Do not look so angry; that folly is past and gone.... I have taken my place toward you—especially since I have confessed to your grandfather—as a kind of honorary uncle.”

On this episode Franka looked back with satisfaction.

On the other hand, she remembered something very unpleasant that had happened to her during the early days of her new life. She had been summoned at a quite unusual hour to her great-aunt’s chamber. She had scarcely crossed the threshold when she realized that she had been invited to appear as a defendant before a criminal court. Behind the table sat the old Countess Schollendorf in her sternest aspect, with her headdress askew, betokening inward excitement; next her, in the capacity of an assistant, Aunt Albertine, and on the table as corpus delicti two books which Franka instantly recognized as her property.

“Come in; sit down and explain yourself: How came you by these books?” This was spoken in a harsh, inquisitorial tone.

The books were Prince Kropotkin’s “Memoirs of a Revolutionist” and Bölsche’s “Liebesleben in der Natur.”

Franka had calmly taken a seat.

“I might rather ask,” she replied, “how come these books here, when they were locked up in my bookcase?”

Miss Albertine, with a honeyed expression, put in her word:—

“My dear girl, this matter concerns your own good: I myself brought the books down. The bookcase was not locked; the key was in the door; I did not break it open. It is perfectly natural that we should be interested in what is read by a young person over whose well-being we have to watch. The other books there I do not know.... I should have to read them first; but the titles of these two are sufficient to condemn them. So I brought them down to Aunt Adele. We have glanced through them and....”

“And,” said the superior judge, taking the words out of the other’s mouth, “I had you summoned to tell you that you are to hand over to us your whole library—it was evidently your inheritance from Professor Garlett, who seems to have been a Freemason.... And I will speak to you with the utmost frankness: you must know that a young girl of our circles does not make the acquaintance of revolutionists and their works.... These are very, very pernicious theories—the worst possible. And then Socialism and Feminism and Pacifism, and all these new ‘isms’ such as are coming into existence in our day.... And now that ‘Liebesleben’! I trust you have not read it!”

“Oh, yes, I have—I read it with my father.”

“And are you not ashamed of yourself? This is certainly the most extraordinary thing I ever heard of! Why, one learns there how herrings break the sixth commandment—it is positively disgusting! Do you not know that there are things which a sensible young maiden—I will not say of our circles, but any sensible maiden—ought to have no suspicion of? What have you to say in your defense?”

“Nothing.”

Franka felt as if she would choke and she uttered the word with a deep breath.

“What does this all mean? Do you wish to rouse my anger?”

“Do not get excited, Adele,” interrupted Miss Albertine appeasingly; “just think—the poor child has not enjoyed the right sort of education; she inherited her mother’s frivolous nature and on her father’s side she is of no family at all—therefore, she lacks the instinct of what becomes our world.... Yes, you are lacking in many respects, Franka, and if I speak in all sincerity,—it is impossible for me to be anything else than sincere,—it is only with the intention of being useful to you. You are still young enough to learn a good deal, to change and to become worthy of the great advantage that you are enjoying here.”

Franka’s throat felt as if a tight band was fastened around it. It occurred to her to run away; she was almost tempted to kill herself—to jump out of the window.... But after a while, as Miss Albertine’s discourse kept on its even flow, she recovered her self-control.

“I ask only one thing,” she said—“that this whole charge be brought before my grandfather. I will abide by his decision.”

“Do you really wish this? I had intended to spare you this disgrace, and was going to say nothing to my brother; but if you yourself desire it ... very well, I will send and find out if we can see him.”

When an affirmative answer was brought, the three ladies betook themselves to the count’s apartment. Miss Albertine held the corpus delicti under her arm. The count was alone. He was sitting in his accustomed place in the reclining-chair, and looked exceptionally lively and well.

“What! Three man strong you march along!” he exclaimed, greeting them.

“Yes, grandfather, you see here a judge, a witness, and a defendant—and I am the defendant; now you are to be the supreme judicial court.”

“Oho! and is there no advocate for the defense?”

“I shall be my own advocate.”

“Very good: now what is the complaint?”

“It is no joking matter,” said the Countess Adele.

“Indeed, it is not,” said Miss Albertine with emphasis. “It concerns Franka’s own good; else we should not have bothered you with it. Your condition demands perfect quiet—you look very miserable.... Forgive me, but I must tell you the truth only for love of you so that you may take care of yourself.”

“Yes, yes, your frankness is touching. But to the business....”

The two old ladies, using almost the identical words as before, formulated their complaint and at the same time handed him the books that were under suspicion.

When they had had their say, Franka cried: “May I now offer my defense?”

The count raised his hand. “No, what is the use? I see clearly how the whole matter stands and can render my judgment. A crime, at least a very detestable misdemeanor, has been committed—or, rather, a whole series of misdemeanors:—looting of others’ property; inquisitiveness and espionage; tale-bearing and making charges; injury and insult; attempted moral constraint and tyranny!”

“But, Eduard,” exclaimed the old countess reproachfully, “do you blame us instead of this erring child?”

“Most certainly, I blame you. Franka is neither in the path of error, nor is she a child. She has not been brought up as you would have brought up your daughters, and she has different ideas. Has she attempted to force these ideas on you? Has she ever tactlessly and offensively expressed her ideas in order to bring yours into unfavorable contrast?”

“No, she has done nothing of that kind. On the contrary, she has hypocritically kept her terrible ideas, imbibed from these terrible books, quite to herself.”

“Why do you say ‘hypocritically’? I call it tactful. If one lives with people who belong to another world of ideas, it is right to avoid bringing up the discussion of questions whereon they would differ; and so people, even though they think so differently, can get along together very congenially. Moreover, there is nothing so very terrible about the two books—I happen to know them. Bölsche is a scientist; Kropotkin an idealist. I do not exactly share their point of view; I am an old country squire, and have taken little interest in the natural sciences and social problems; but I know that we live at a time when much that is new is crowding out the old. We can’t make all shoes on one last, and we cannot expect our grandchildren to be educated exactly as our fathers were educated. And as far as education goes, certainly nothing more needs be said about Franka’s. She will be of age in a few months: I had her come here to a home, not to a young ladies’ boarding-school. I will not put up with her life being spoiled by the others in this house.”

“Oh! how good and kind you are!” stammered Franka, who had once more knelt down on the footstool near Sielen’s reclining-chair.

“Never mind, my girl; don’t bother your head about it. The aunts meant well.... But now I will ask you to leave me for a while. The affair has agitated me.”

That ended the incident. To be sure, a little bitterness remained, but the two old ladies from that time forth avoided any nursery-governess tone toward the young girl. The sick master’s will was law on the Sielenburg.

Still another incident, somewhat later, produced a still deeper impression. It was a letter. Almost never did the postman bring Franka any mail. In all the more excitement she tore open the envelope which she found one fine morning lying on her breakfast-tray. It was in an unknown hand and unsigned. After she read it, she easily guessed who its writer was.

Vienna, August 2, 1909.

My greetings to you, Franka! As an actual man I am not justified in addressing you thus familiarly, but this is only a kind of wave-motion from soul to soul. The reason for this letter is, that you appeared to me last night in a dream. You looked sad and troubled. Something of questioning and yearning was expressed in your face and was evident in your outstretched arms. In what direction would your desires, your longings, your questionings wing their flight? Your surroundings will give no fulfillment of them, no answer to them. Perhaps I may be able to serve as a guide—perhaps I may be able to solve some of the riddles for you. And since you have appeared to me in a dream—and because I am fond of you—I venture to approach you as a bodyless teacher, a formless brother, a lover who hopes for nothing. Or rather—do not call it presumptuous!—I come to you as a priest. I have religious consolation in readiness for you and I will lay down religious commandments for you.

Yet, let this be for the last. We will first speak of worldly things. The question which a pretty girl of twenty asks of fate—even though she does not acknowledge it to herself—is, “Shall I be happily married?” She might just as well ask, “Shall I find a needle in a haystack?” For it is just as difficult, out of the hundred thousand chances of an unhappy marriage, to secure the one slender chance of a happy one, although every young woman believes that for her particularly there are several ready for choice. And the claims are not modest. Dozens of conditions cluster around the idea of “happiness”—above all, love. And in it are united all the attributes and aspects of this manifold phenomenon:—the platonic and erotic; passion, sentimentality, devotion, sweet torment and tearful ecstasy, hot desire and the full and peaceful possession—and this whole medley, presumably to last as long as life, based on eternal faithfulness ... (il faut en rabattre!)

But love alone is not sufficient. To happiness, as dreamed by the young maiden, some other things are needed: if not wealth, at least perfect pecuniary independence, a comfortable and fairly elegant household, continued good health, social recognition, pleasant occupation, pretty toilettes—perhaps also handsome children. I am speaking of the average girl, not of the ultra-modern type before whom a quite special expression of personality is held up, or from whom the well-known “call of motherhood” is extorted.

To that class you do not belong; you are not eccentric, you are calm and reflective, but assuredly you are also hungry for happiness.

Now the question for you is: “Will Destiny pay the note which Youth and Beauty have drawn on her?” Who can tell? It is a matter of accident. Accident is only another name for Fate, and cannot give you any remedy against her tricks. Consequently we must possess something to raise us above all perils, above poverty and loneliness, above illness and sorrow, yes, verily, above the terrors of death!

If you had been educated in a convent, such a talisman would have been put into your possession: the knowledge that you were a child of God, the belief in happiness beyond the grave, the union with all that is sacred in the eternal and in the infinite. But this golden talisman would have been handed to you in a tin capsule of dogmas, and you, like so many others to whose riper taste and judgment the capsule no longer appealed, would have flung the whole thing away, contents and cover; or, like so many others, you would have only clung to the outward wrapping as a kind of symbol, as a ceremonial necessity.

At the present time, in this country, it is a part of good form to be pious. By assiduous church attendance, by friendly intercourse with the clergy, by scorn and contempt for all free thinking, one tickets one’s self as belonging to fine society. They are mere forms, to be sure, but how can the man and the woman of society differentiate themselves from the ordinary mass of humanity if not by the observance of forms? Signing the cross, as one sits at table,—the way it is done of late in aristocratic houses,—is not a mark of reverence, but a “correct” gesture—equal to the conventional court curtsy.

I would not wish to imply that there are not actually honest believers who in spite of the tin capsule penetrate to the golden center of the talisman and are thereby elevated and strengthened. “Be good!” is certainly the profoundest meaning of every religious imperative—honor to the man who with voluntary obedience listens to this commandment by reason of his faith.

You were not educated in a nunnery—as I happen to know. Do you possess that fervent Something, by means of which a person is raised above all the eventualities of life and above one’s self? That I do not know. Let me explain to you what I understand by this “Something”: let me be for half an hour your catechist!

This is the mystery:—Recognize as your home, that is to say as the place to which you belong, a domain larger than your house, than your family, than your parish, than your earth—the universe. You belong to it: it belongs to you. Religionists have an inkling of this truth and they call it “the fatherhood of God.” Science has investigated it and here it is called “indestructibility” and “homogeneity of matter” and “eternal conservation of all energy.” This guarantees you immortality. The part that you play in the great world-drama is important, just as every one else’s is, and it is never played to the end.

Do not shrug your shoulders and say: “What is the use of a continued existence if, in another life, I do not remember the former; if my ego has disappeared?” Certainly “your” ego, in its present form, is lost, but in the new form you will feel an ego in similar degree. Is your consciousness, your inner sense of life, lessened by the fact that you do not remember the existences through which you have passed in the infinity behind you? The past ego was not “another one,” nor will the ones that follow be,—they all are a part of the same ego of the universe, divided billions and trillions of times. If one has learned to feel one’s self as a constituent of the eternal circle of life, if one knows that one is akin to the plants and the stars, if one feels in one’s inmost soul the sparks flashing from the flame of the Universal Spirit, then one is penetrated by the sense of being a child of God just as much as a nun kneeling in prayer on the stone flags.

Yet these are only impulses for especial exalted hours—not at all times can one feel consecrated to the All. But there are also narrower circles into which one can enter and escape one’s own egotistical loneliness—any kind of a great community. For some, it is found in art; for some in the various so-called “Movements,” or political campaigns, or even revolutions; either in active coöperation or mainly in intense sympathy: in either case one will be elevated above the everyday pettinesses and ennuis of one’s own existence, if it be petty and tiresome, aye, if it be full of sadness! Listen, Franka, to the roaring of the stream of Time; see how human society is striving to attain new goals, how it is engaged in the battle with the powers of the traditional—to acquire more light, more freedom, more righteousness; in a word, more happiness.

A mighty aid to this uplift of souls is found in the technical marvels with which human invention is every day transforming this world. We live in a great, great age! Especially great, not so much in what is as in what is to be! To think of sharing in it all! Do not miss the noble enjoyment which every bold ascent is preparing! And even if you yourself cannot attain a height, then rejoice in the lofty flights of humanity. “Soaring”—the word was formerly applied to us men only figuratively, but now—you know what happened only a few days ago—for the first time a man flew over the Channel ... and these surprises, these triumphs will be enlarged.... Look and listen! Show yourself—let us all show ourselves—worthy of having been born under the glory of the twentieth century....

Here the letter abruptly ended. It was not difficult to guess from whom it came: only Mr. Helmer could have been its author. Had any definite address been attached to it or an answer been demanded, perhaps Franka would have sent a letter in return. She had hardly given a thought to the young secretary since she no longer had occasion to meet him. After the receipt of this letter, however, which she read from beginning to end several times, it was natural that her thoughts should turn frequently to Chlodwig Helmer. What especially moved her was that something of the spirit of her father seemed to breathe through this letter—there was the same trend of thought and at the same time almost the same use of words and phrases. This was not strange, for where ideas coincide, there must be a similarity in expression of them; every philosophy of life has its own terminology. Above and beside all the abstract ideas contained in the letter there was also the striking of a note which awakened a melodious echo:—the five words, “I am fond of you”!—Then it happened, apparently in consequence of his statement that she had appeared to him in a dream, that she also two or three times dreamed of him, and wonderful!—in the dream his face was not homely—not at all, but rather fascinating. No second letter followed, the dreams were not continued, and the whole incident gradually grew faint and indefinite.