I am making use of this right and I have sat down at my desk. It stands by the open window and bright moonlight is streaming into the room. Only this sheet of paper is illuminated by my shaded lamp—the rest of the room is all bathed in soft, silvery blue. I had put on my clothes to take a stroll in the garden and to cool my fever in the moon-enchanted night air. But I can put before you something of the overflow of my thoughts. You yourself are the center of these thoughts. What has so disturbed me is the experience that I went through to-day on account of you and because of you. And in this emotion so much was revealed to my consciousness concerning you and myself ... but I am going to write you here only of what concerns you, what touches your life. I leave myself out of the question. It would be very enticing now, when I am coming to you for refuge in this moment of restlessness and loneliness, to make you the confidante of my trouble,—for I have that,—but it is my own secret.
Now let me speak of you and your address. I had no opportunity of talking with you about it. You disappeared in the hall; first you were surrounded by the Sielenburg people and then you were accosted by the prince. Shortly afterwards you retired, evidently exhausted by your triumph. For it was a triumph in spite of the panic which tormented you in the morning. You spoke with sovereign assurance, and said all that was to be said. Indeed, you went beyond your accustomed domain,—the education of women for an intellectual participation in the questions of the day; you entered the domain of actual feminism—for you pleaded for practical coöperation of women in government and lawmaking. But such general and abstract considerations do little toward the attainment of this end. The gradual conquest of the whole will be accomplished only by practical workers in details, doing practical things, here one and there one, thousands of them in thousands of different places. And this development is already in full swing, though it still lags far behind the ideal which you have foreseen.
Yet, what am I driving at? Here I am speaking also of generalities which do not interest me at this moment. What interests me now is yourself, is your life. My conscience reproaches me that when you gave me all your confidence, as to a brother in the spirit, I pointed out to you this path where you are entirely forgetting yourself. I was the one who suggested the word “Renunciation” as the countersign of that path.
Yet I recall that I added: this full devotion to the cause would be demanded only for a few years. These years are now past. Your duty, as far as you could fulfill it, is fulfilled. With generous hands you have scattered the seed of great ideas into the world of women. You have called into existence the Garlett Academy, and lavished a large part of your fortune on it—it is working on in your spirit. The congregation of the “Frankistinnen” has been formed and is spreading. It is no longer necessary for you to throw your whole self into the work of the propaganda; it will go forward henceforth automatically. Let your address of to-day be the last of your public addresses.
It will find an echo in a thousand places—it will be perpetuated in the “Rose Annals”—it makes a brilliant finale. Laboriously and courageously and persistently, you have put your shoulder to the wheel to set it in motion;—now it is in full motion ... what is the use of pushing it any more? Time will bring you other work; but there is no reason for you to go out and seek work—you must think of living, you must think of your own still fresh, joy-deserving life. You are here also “to share in loving,” Franka. And now I come back to Prince Victor Adolph. I believe he worships you. He is no ordinary man. I have trustworthy information as to his worthiness. Do not do violence to your heart if it beats for him.
Having reached this point, Franka dropped the sheet into her lap—she had not expected this. The first words of the letter, “racing pulse and whirling thoughts,” thoughts which complemented her picture—she would sooner have been prepared for his appealing to her heart for himself and not for another. Well, it was better so. In this way her “Brother Chlodwig” was not lost to her.
She had no idea what it had cost him. At the very place where she ceased reading, he had ceased writing. He had sprung to his feet, and, clasping his head in both hands, had groaned aloud. He paced several times up and down the room in his excitement. Then he leaned out of the window and gazed toward the horizon which already betrayed a pallid premonition of the early dawn. The moon was veiled in passing clouds and one or two stars were twinkling. “One may not yearn to grasp the stars!” Have I not often repeated this to myself? He was vexed with himself. This jealous emotion seemed to him senseless, unworthy. He must and would crush it down, and the very best way before him was to help Franka to incline to the prince. And so he went on writing:—
I really believe that an alliance with this royal prince might make you happy in several directions: first through merely loving—that crown of life—why should you not make it yours? And secondly, if the opportunity is given you, to work for your, for our, ideals (and in this word “our” I include also the spirit of your father). Only think what might be accomplished in this important, influential position. How the young prince would be strengthened and inspired by you in his bold, independent ideas. There is certainly no genuine happiness on earth for the like of us, unless we continue to work for the great objects which our longing eyes have beheld. We cannot, as long as we live, cease our efforts. In the midst of every other kind of happiness this work remains our chief desire, as it is our consolation in every misfortune. In my own trouble—I confessed to you that I have trouble—I am still with the half of my soul—the better half of my soul—at my task. You have already fulfilled your task for the Rose-Week Festival. Before me is still my reading in the presence of the whole world. I am not—like Franka Garlett—used to public speaking; my tool is the pen. So I look forward to this ordeal not without trembling, yet not without pleasure. It is a splendid opportunity to pour out what fills the soul to overflowing. I burn to be heard and understood. Not because I flatter myself that I have something beautiful to say, but something that may bring help. But how to find the right words?
The things that float before my mind are so dazzling and so new, while the words that one has at one’s disposal are so banal and so flat. The sublimest concepts, like goodness, freedom, right, have become dimmed by so many editorials, committee speeches, and election proclamations, that they have lost all their brilliancy—what is worse, all their value. The lofty thoughts mined from the new time lie in bars, like gold, but in order to bring them into circulation, one must first coin them into new words, while we have only thin and worn coins to pass. If we come to the modern man—I mean a man with broad philosophical and æsthetic views—with these morality-dripping words (a morality which has been amply preached but never practiced in all these thousands of years), then it moves him like the admonition, “Be a good little boy,” spoken to a grown-up man.
It is beginning to dawn—this is no metaphor: you know the old fault of my style of letter-writing, but this time I have really had no other meaning—it is beginning to grow light. In order to scare away the torment of sleepless night hours, I have written till morning. In the foliage-crowned trees awakens the twittering of birds. What is it that they have to say to one another every day at waking and every evening before they compose themselves to sleep?